Airway
by Kira
Summary: During one week in February, Olivia tries to solve a case, Peter battles a cold, Astrid gets some time out of the lab, and Walter drugs someone when mosquitoes start killing people in Boston.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Airway  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T/PG-13  
><strong>Genre:<strong> H/C, Romance, Casefic  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> None. Set between '6B' and 'Os'  
><strong>Summary:<strong> During one week in February, Olivia tries to solve a case, Peter battles a cold, Astrid gets some time out of the lab, and Walter drugs someone when mosquitoes start killing people in Boston.

Hola, lovelies!

Well, here it is, the uber-long casefic I've been working on since the beginning of February. A nice long dose of Polivia inside the framework of a case. I did two weeks of research for this one, kids, so while it may not be entire possible, the theories and beginnings are there. Thank you, random issue of Popular Science, for jump-starting my muse.

Many thanks to Nikki Greenleaf for being my cheerleader through this, and Bryn for the quick beta. This fic may be posted a chapter at a time, _but it's entirely finished_. I love you too much to leave you hanging!

XO Kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"Peter!"

The shout echoes up the stairs and right into his ears. He groans and throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sunlight streaming in through his windows. Everything's fuzzy, thick, and his head is clogged with cotton balls, so Walter and everyone else can just make it through the day without him.

Which, Peter realizes as his door is thrown open by his insane father, will never happen. Walter has too wide of a grin on his face and seems to have decided on the day's outfit _and_ breakfast, both of which he is currently wearing.

"Go away, Walter," Peter groans from under his arm.

"But Olivia has called," he replies, and adds, with a clap, "and we have a new case!"

This gets Peter to open his eyes, but only to glare in Walter's direction. "Fantastic. What is it this time?"

"Oh, well, I don't exactly know." He laughs a bit. "I have to admit, I wasn't completely paying attention; my eggs were burning."

Peter tries not to think about the state of the kitchen downstairs while he blinks his eyes awake. Reaching for his nightstand, he tries to remember where he left his phone, why he didn't bring it up with him. And then it comes to him in a swish of woozy memories – talking to Olivia on the phone while idly flipping through channels, falling asleep with the line still open, having the presence of mind to plug it in to charge before stumbling upstairs.

Sighing, he knows Olivia will be waiting for them to arrive on-scene and depending on where she is, they're either going to be on time or very, very late at this point.

Which won't happen if Walter's the one with the information. Never a day off - Peter sighs and throws off his covers.

"Did she call on my phone?" he ask as he sits up. _Whoah_. He does _not_ feel well. Maybe that late night walk was a bad idea -

"Yes. It was in the kitchen."

"Did you bring it up here with you?"

"No."

Like pulling teeth. Peter runs a hand through his hair and wonders if he has time for a quick shower before heading out, but doesn't want to risk it.

"Are you feeling alright, son?"

Peter's head snaps up and he gives a reassuring smile.

"I'm fine, Walter, just fine. I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes."

His father nods and disappears. As an afterthought, Peter shouts, "And change your shirt!" before standing and getting a start on the day.

* * *

><p>The February day is sharp, cold, and cloudless. Olivia pulls her gloves on tighter as she crosses the street into the circus of FBI activity on the wide sidewalk outside a downtown coffee shop. The only blessing of winter is the lack of gawkers at the crime scene, and Broyles easily notes her approach.<p>

"So, what's up? she asks. When she meets up with Broyles, they match stride up to the crime tape, which he holds up for her before passing through himself.

"Miriam Ellis, 29, came here for her morning coffee around 7:15am and suddenly, well, I'll let you see for yourself."

The body of Miriam Ellis is lying on the sidewalk outside the door to the coffee shop, mouth - if it could be called that at this point - open in object horror, eyes wide and almost completely red, pupils blown. But most of her face has been obscured by timorous growths, skin stretched and split to reveal sticky muscle and -

"What _is_ that?" she breathes.

Fabric is ripped where more growth has gone out of control, shoes forced off her feet. There is little resemblance to a normal human shape left, and this may not be the worst mutation she's ever seen.

And that's saying something.

"According to witnesses, this happened within a 5 minute time span," Broyles says when she straightens. He looks around, then back at Olivia.

"What do we know about her?"

"She worked as a paralegal in a law office around the corner - Vincentti, Brown, & Yarles. Lived outside the city. Married. As far as we can tell, she was a normal suburbanite."

"Who just happened to have her - " instead of finishing, she simply makes a face.

Over her shoulder, Broyles nods, the tight clip of the head that signals the arrival of the Bishops. Olivia turns - it's been almost a week since she's seen either of them, and while that used to be the norm, lately, she's been used to seeing a lot more of half the team. Her eyes follow Peter as he lags behind his father by a few steps, but doesn't let her worry leak out onto her features.

"Oh, good morning, Agent Broyles!" greets Walter on his way to the body. Olivia hangs back, slowing to the crawl Peter's moving at.

"Running late this morning?" she half-jokes.

"You want us here on time, don't give the details to Walter," he tells her, eyes on the crime scene. She hates that his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. Coupled with a hat and thick scarf, Peter's hidden except for his cheeks, speckled red with cold.

"You weren't answering," she tries. He seems to nod, his face half-turned towards her in apology, and she sighs, holding them back for a moment. "Are you still not feeling well? I thought it was just a run-of-the-mill cold."

"Is anything run-of-the-mill in our lives?" he counters, deadpan. At her lack of an answer, he moves off, joining up with his father. Olivia watches as he catches sight of what's under the sheet, and while none of them would admit to being bothered by what they investigate, she does note how he turns away for a beat before focusing on the bricks above Miriam Ellis' body.

The elder Bishop leans in, undisturbed by the poor state the body is in, more interested in what was revealed when the skin split. There's a method to his scientific inquiry, a process he goes through in seconds that take most hours. Broyles has left them to their work; Olivia remains outside, curious.

"What is that, Walter?" she asks.

"I can't be sure, yet, but I surmise that this is some kind of rogue cell growth." He pokes at one of the parts, finger squishing in. Clear fluid leaks out and drips to the sidewalk.

"And then there's that," Peter comments. "Could you at least put a glove on?"

"Oh, I doubt this is contagious, not these cells. They're perfectly healthy."

"Aside from having just busted through a woman's skin?"

Olivia frowns. "I don't understand. How could healthy cells grow like this?"

"I'll need to take the body back to my lab to test them, of course, but I believe they simply multiplied unhindered."

"Like cancer?"

Walter stands and wipes his hand on his jacket. Olivia spies Peter wincing as it does it and smiles in his direction.

"No," Walter is saying, "Cancer is the growth of _abnormal_ cells in the body. These appear to be simply misplaced."

"From other organs? You can't just grow liver cells by themselves from, say, your forehead," says Peter. "And even if you could, not this quickly."

"A curious thing," mutters Walter. "Yes, back to the lab."

Walter's left with the body and the Boston coroner's assistants, now used to him and his love of the macabre. She hears one ask about the growths and the excitement in Walter's voice carries as Olivia enters the coffee shop.

Agents crawl amongst the fixtures, behind the counters, searching for clues, evidence. Broyles stands with another agent and one of the employees, a woman shaken in her bright, coffee-stained apron. Olivia slips off her gloves and shoves them into her left pocket, thankful to be inside where it's warm.

The place is permeated with the sweet smell of coffee. She could use a cup. Or two.

"Hello," she greets with an easy smile. "I'm Agent Olivia Dunham. Can you tell me what happened this morning?"

The woman takes a breath. "Miriam came in like usual for her morning coffee - a grande skim mocha with light whip. She seemed fine, maybe a little tired?"

"Did she say anything? Give any indication that something was wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. We're pretty busy at that time in the morning, so we didn't have a lot of time to talk," - she frowns, thinking. Then, "She did say something about going out on-site for a case, and how she was exhausted from the trip. Then she went to get her drink and...oh, God, she started screaming and - changing. She ran out the door..." The barista trails off, hugging herself. The agent near them leads her away, consoling her as best anyone can.

"We've pulled the security tapes and sent them back to be analyzed," Broyles says. "Hopefully, we'll be able to get something from them."

"What I don't get is what activated it," Peter says from beside her, his voice surprising Olivia. He's leaning against the front counter, but this isn't to give her space - without the sunglasses, she can finally see his face - bloodshot eyes, pale skin - and wonders if the counter's the only thing holding him up.

"What do you mean?" prompts Broyles.

"Something like this isn't airborne, and the woman said she didn't get her coffee. So what triggered this reaction?"

"We'll collect what we can here and send it over to the lab," Broyles replies. Olivia nods, ready to move on, and turns to leave when her boss adds, "Bishop, are you all right?"

Peter gives a half smile. "Just a cold. Nothing some Day-Quil can't fix."

"Make sure it stays that way."

Broyles moves off and pulls out his cell phone. Peter slides on his sunglasses and starts for the door. Olivia's left standing alone in the center of chaos, on the outside looking in at what's become of her life.

* * *

><p>Aaron Ellis falls back into his chair, hand coming up to cover his mouth, jaw slack with shock. Across the desk, Olivia leans forward, elbows on her knees, small reporter's notebook in hand. She's every bit the compassionate professional, invested just enough to put Ellis at ease showing weakness in front of her. As Miriam Ellis' husband absorbs the news of his wife's unusual death, Olivia gives him a moment to take it in before flipping open her notebook.<p>

"Mr. Ellis, can you think of anything unusual, anything at all?" opens Olivia. "Was there anything that happened in the last week, maybe, that may have stood out?"

Ellis shakes his head, still bewildered. "No, nothing. Miriam does the same route every day. Coffee, work, home. She meets with friends once a week, maybe goes out with co-workers on the weekend."

"What about errands for her job? One of the witnesses said something about Miriam going on-site for work."

"Yeah," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Yeah. Her boss called on Saturday, asked her to drive out to Medfield to take care of something. She didn't seem happy about it, but I thought it was just because it was the weekend." He frowns, then leans forward. "Did something happen there? Is that where she was - you said she was infected with something?"

"Uh, we don't know the specifics yet, Mr. Ellis," Olivia says, her head slightly turning to face Peter. He doesn't give her anything to go off of, and she quickly returns her attention to Ellis. "Do you have the address of where she went to?"

"No. But she did put it into her GPS."

Something for them to follow up on. Peter slips out the door and pulls his cell phone from his pocket, dialing Broyles. If the senior agent isn't still at the scene, he can at least get someone to pull the data off Miriam Ellis' GPS while processing the car. Halfway through scrolling to the number, Peter begins to feel a tickle at the back of his throat, and while the phone rings, he swallows it down.

He's halfway through explaining things to Broyles when the tickle comes back with a vengeance, tripping him up as he tries to speak. He clears his throat and grimaces as it grows more uncomfortable, and it's only through stubbornness that Peter stumbles over the last few words and disconnects before being overwhelmed by a coughing fit. It has him doubled over, hands on his knees, phone on the ground where it slipped from his fingers - his chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, but can't - just feels that tickle and his lungs trying to escape up his throat.

And then, when he's beginning to feel a bit dizzy, a hand lands on his back and rubs it in circles. Maybe it was clearing up on its own or maybe it was helped, but his breathing begins to clear. Peter leans against the wall and tilts his head back. It doesn't help that his nose is congested; he can feel the blood pulsing in his head, a steady thump thump, as he tries to suck in some air.

"Hey, Peter," he hears Olivia whisper from beside him. "Here."

He cracks open his eyes to see her holding out a water bottle, cap already removed. He takes it, their fingers brushing, as he does, and downs half the bottle.

When he regains his breath, he hands it back and says, "Thanks."

She seems to be studying him, deciding if she should say anything. The look in her eyes – so familiar from a childhood of illness – is a big part of why he's stayed quarantined in the house for the past week, content with phone conversations.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay? Maybe you should go home, get some rest."

"The last thing I need is to spend time at home," he replies, trying for a grin. After a few clear breaths, he pushes off the wall and rubs his eyes. "Broyles is having someone pull the GPS data and sending it to Astrid at the lab. Did Ellis have anything to add?" He hopes she takes the bait, goes for a change of topic before either of them go into concern; he's had enough of that in his lifetime.

Olivia seems to pause for a beat, considering her options before jumping right in. "Nothing much. His wife complained of feeling under the weather, but they thought it was just a cold."

"They're going around," he observes, pushing open the door and holding it for her. Olivia passes through and gives him a bit of a smile, but it's gone by the time he catches up to her in the elevator lobby, where she's already putting on her gloves. "So what do you think happened here? She would have mentioned if someone approached her in Medfield, right?"

"Sure," Olivia shrugs. The elevator arrives and she steps in, set in glowing amber tones by lights reflecting off paneled walls. Peter stands there, drinking in the sight, before clearing his head and stepping in next to her.

She presses the button for the lobby.

* * *

><p>Astrid makes a face as Walter cuts into the tissue growth. It reminds her of coral reefs, all random angles and variable bonds, with holes worn by fish and plant life. Walter, as usual, is intrigued, lucid as he examines the newest oddity to pass into their lab. And, per usual, she's standing at his side, wondering what the <em>hell<em> they've stumbled into this week.

He finishes his incision and turns to her - Astrid is one step ahead of him, and as soon as he opens his mouth, she says, "Get a dish for a sample, yes."

"You're a bright young lady, Astrid," he says, gleeful, smearing the sample into the plastic dish. "Now, we need to get under this mess to see the state of her original structure."

"You want to cut all of that away?" she asks. Almost as second nature, she caps the dish and writes on a small label on the top 'Abnormal Cell Sample' in neat, block handwriting. Walter's still fond of labels, and often makes them in several languages when significantly altered, making Astrid glad she has a firm grasp of several he uses.

"Yes!" he grins. "In order to know the damage caused, we need to get down to the basics."

"But isn't that what killed her?"

"Killed her? Goodness, no! Cell growth causes illness, yes - look at cancer - but only after a prolonged period of time. This woman was killed by something else. I theorize that whatever caused this growth is what killed her, but only as a by-product of the molecular process."

Which means, yes, they are cutting everything away. With a sigh, Astrid goes to find the larger plastic storage containers, stacked neatly from when she washed them after the last case with larger biological evidence, estimating how many she'll need. Behind her, Walter continues to work, the soft sounds of rock filling the cavern-like laboratory, the air almost thicker with the notes.

"Miss? Come here for a moment," he calls, holding an arm. Astrid smiles - at least he didn't give her another name - and puts the containers down on a nearby counter before joining Walter at his side.

He holds the arm out to her, a latex-covered finger pointing to something on her skin. Astrid frowns, and leans in closer.

"Is that a mosquito bite?"


	2. Chapter 2

Hola, darlings!

I'll be posting on Tuesdays and Fridays until we finish this up. So that's about another month, I think? Thank MusicalWhovian, who PMed me to tell me she needed more of this fic, and convinced me posting twice a week would be best. Especially Fridays, to fill the void left by no new Fringe tonight.

Thank you for all your reviews and comments! It makes me so happy to know people are enjoying my fic.

XO, Kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

By the time they arrive at the lab, a winter wind is almost howling as it sweeps across the Bay area, through the twisting, outdoor hallways of Harvard's campus. Olivia pulls her coat tighter around her and is thankful she decided on wearing a hat today; her nose is near frozen when she pulls open one of the double doors leading into the lab space, and as soon as she removes her gloves, she rubs it just a little bit.

"Hey," she breathes, unbuttoning her jacket, "how's it going in here?"

"Walter thinks whatever killed Miriam Ellis was transmitted through a mosquito bite," Astrid answers from her perch near the computer.

"A mosquito bite?" asks Peter from the top of the stairs. He walks down to Olivia's side, but has yet to remove all his winter wear. "Walter, you do know it's the middle of winter, right?"

"Of course I do, son!" Walter says. "I remember one winter, when, as a child, you stayed out sledding well past dark. Your little nose was so red, it resembled a cherry!"

"That's great, thank you. Can we move on?"

"Yes! I do not believe this mosquito was the kind we are used to. It certainly wasn't interested in only ingesting Mrs. Ellis' blood. Rather, it implanted some fluid of its own into her bloodstream."

He's excited as he delivers the news, all smiles and theatrics with his speech. It relieves Olivia that there's _some_ idea of cause of death, rather, what caused the cause of death. Something she can go on, follow wherever it may lead, though she's sure it will send her to someplace in Medfield. Olivia folds her jacket over her arm and hangs it off a nearby chair before taking a few more steps into the lab. The air here is warmer, insulated by decades old construction and humming machinery, toasty, comfortable.

"Okay, so how does that work?" she asks. "And how does a mosquito survive in such cold temperatures?"

"I'm quite sure it didn't live very long," he answers with a frown. "Which is unfortunate; I am sure it was an interesting specimen."

Olivia nods, waiting - and then realizes no one's speaking. The room hums around her, the wind hits the windows, but all four occupants are quiet. She turns to Peter, raising her eyebrows, a silent question, _Are you going to say anything?_ but notes his position, his pallor, and gives him, for once, a pass.

"Okay, so this mosquito bites Ellis, gives her something, and dies. Which means someone had to make it, right?" She's grasping at concepts, pulling in information and synthesizing it into a conclusion to follow, hands moving as she speaks. "But why?"

"To clone cells!" Walter hops. "We isolated cells from both the growths and Mrs. Ellis' native tissue and found them to be slightly modified copies."

"Wait a second," drawls Peter from where he leans against a counter, "Are you saying she was growing a head out of her head?" He shakes his head. "Isn't that wonderful."

"You're saying she was cloned," deadpans Olivia.

"Yes. In a manner of speaking. I'm not exactly sure what was passed into her system, however, I do know that this reaction, and I don't know the mechanism just yet, was a chain reaction inside her cells to replicate. A skin cell grows another, a brain cell grows another, but at a highly increased rate."

"Okay." It's a statement to fill otherwise uncertain footing. It's early in the game, when Walter's theories are rocky at best and make for bad science fiction films than the reality he bases them on. She likes a world of facts, concrete evidence, something she can see and touch and face. And even though her own world has been unraveling over the last few years, a loose thread on a sweater that continues to eat away at a solid foundation, her mind jumps to those facts when beginning to sort through a case.

She's no good here, in the lab, and no longer sees that as a weakness. Running a hand over her hair, Olivia looks to the clock hanging on the wall, calculating how long a trip out to Medfield would take, and if there'd be anything to see; winter makes for a lousy bedfellow, limiting her field time with early sunsets and frigid nights.

"Was Broyles able to get anything from the law office where she worked?" she asks of Astrid.

"Yeah," the junior agent responds. "The files are in the office. But check this out first. Agent Broyles sent over the security footage from the coffee shop, and I was reviewing it." She cues up a quad-screen in shocking, red-saturated color. Olivia can feel Peter standing behind her as Astrid presses play.

Miriam Ellis, alive and smiling, chats with the barista interviewed at the scene. They know each other, obviously, and laugh at some shared secret before Ellis moves off to wait for her drink to be ready. She stands there for a moment before her mouth gapes open like a fish out of water, and it's clear she's unable to breathe. Patrons gather around her as she grips her throat, then crash out through the front doors, where a lone external camera catches, in the far bottom of the screen, Ellis collapse to her knees and begin to bubble - that's the only word Olivia can think of to describe what's happening. Clothing expands and rips as Ellis goes slack on the ground.

It's all over within three minutes. Astrid stops the tape and turns to Olivia. "I was thinking I could time lapse it, see how long it takes for each stage to happen?"

She stares at the screen, now blank, trying to come back from seeing Ellis' death. "Sure. That'd help. Thanks, Astrid."

Olivia heads for her office-away-from-home, leaving Astrid and Walter to do their magic, find her more facts to go on than the worried ramblings of a grieving husband and impersonal work files. It'll be dark in an hour, and while she won't be able to go out in the field, the early sunset allows her more time to think things out without eating into time she could spend asleep.

She needs it more, now, a puzzling symptom of something larger.

There is a box of files on the desk in what she considers her second office, a welcoming sight to her deductive mind. At least a better one than the image of Miriam Ellis' body laying on a Boston sidewalk, sprinkled with snow, coffee spilled across the sidewalk.

_Coffee_.

And here, she hadn't thought she was tired. Cravings for coffee are another symptom of change in her life, far wilder than before going through forced withdrawal by living on the Other Side, as if her body thinks it can make up for missed time. Or maybe her cells are trying to rebuild their reserves? It's a question for Walter, and Olivia, despite being okay around this, her normal version of the mad scientist, isn't ready to let him come near her with any sort of needles or testing equipment.

Thankfully, Astrid's kept a fresh pot on their lone coffee maker, and Olivia pours herself a healthy cupful, and it isn't until she's spooning in her usual amount of sugar that she realizes Peter hasn't followed her in. His questions, a mix of what he's surmised from Walter's theories and Olivia's police work, have come to help kick-start connections in her brain, and the silence means she's sitting in idle, waiting for a starting gun.

Coffee in hand, she peeks around the doorway out into the sprawling lab space, and finds he's back to leaning against a counter, head bowed as Astrid talks to him. She puts a hand on his arm and smiles before being called away by Walter, but her last message is clear; Peter turns and spies Olivia over his shoulder, and gives her a small smile before pushing off the lab table.

"Hey," she says on his approach. "Wanna go over some legalese with me?"

He laughs. "I think I'll leave the law to you, if you don't mind. Science is more my thing."

"You never know," she shrugs, turning back into the office as he enters. "Your knowledge is a bit different than mine."

"Only in practice," Peter grins. The smile brightens his face but doesn't warm it.

"Gonna take off your hat? Or are you planning on leaving again?" she asks with a bounce in her voice. Her voice sounds slightly cheerleaderish to her ears, peppy with a pop she hasn't felt in two years, and that's a symptom she knows the cause of.

He slips it off his head, hair sticking up, and as Olivia breaks out laughing, he puts on a slighted affront that is only ruined by a cough escaping his lips. He tries, really tries, to suppress it, but fails - while nowhere as bad as back at Ellis' office, it's still enough to give Olivia pause.

"Okay," he finally says, "I think I'll stay in here and read over some files with you."

"Be my guest."

* * *

><p>Light spills onto the sidewalk as a door opens and two men stumble from the bar, clutching at each other as they try to remain upright. Their suits are clean, pressed, the uniform of the professional, only their ties are loosened, out of place. They laugh and call back into the bar before the door swings shut and they start down the sidewalk.<p>

Tall buildings cast long shadows across the bright lights of downtown Boston, and the men find their way into the throng of human traffic, all on their way to somewhere. It isn't too late - restaurants are filled with the late dinner crowd - and the men don't have far to go.

"Oh, shit!" one exclaims as they reach the other side of a crosswalk. "Amy's gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick up some stuff from the store on my way home."

"She'll forgive you," the other says with a smile, "she always does."

"Yeah." The first claps his friend on the shoulder. "She does, doesn't she?"

"Hey, listen, Jen and I are having this dinner party thing next week - she's in one of those _moods_ again - and really wants you and Amy to come."

"Sure thing!"

"Great! It's nex - "

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out; he's struggling to breathe, to speak. His hand claws at his friend, gripping his arm so hard, the fabric of his coat begins to wrinkle. People pass around them as his eyes widen, almost bulging from his head.

"Rick, hey, Rick, are you okay?"

A slight shake of his head as he falls to his knees.

Something slithers under his skin. The friend takes a step back as Rick's skin begins to bulge, buttons snapping off his shirt as he grows too large for the fabric, and the friend, backpedaling as he meets his friend's eyes - or where they're supposed to be - slips and falls in the slush along the sidewalk.

People are stopping, now. A woman gives a gasp of surprise. Another asks the air what the hell's going on. Rick has collapsed to his side, body writhing in the sleet, clothes ripping as his body begins to morph into some kind of elephant man.

Skin splits. Blood mixes into the snow, cuts a path through it, still hot.

* * *

><p>The files from Miriam's law office don't yield much and what they do say about Medfield or what she was doing there doesn't raise suspicion. Olivia takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to clear her head. She looks up, through the windows, to the dim lab; Astrid and Walter left an hour ago to get some dinner - Walter had a sudden craving for chicken and applesauce - and haven't yet returned.<p>

The time on her computer says 8:43pm.

Peter's fallen asleep in the chair next to the desk, head on his arms, pillowed amongst files and reports updated throughout the day. His breathing isn't steady but harsh, a congested sound she's been hearing for days. He's kept his distance, not wanting to get anyone else sick, but Olivia can't help but smile at his stubbornness when he insists he's fine.

"I've been taking care of myself for awhile now, Dunham," he told her. "I think I can handle a cold."

_But that isn't the point, is it?_

Putting her glasses down on the desk, Olivia leans over and brushes a hand over his hair, around his ear, content to just watch him for a minute. How easy it's been to slip into a relationship, to take that final step they've both wanted for so long. It's like a comfortable sweater, a loved jacket - warm, soft, but not too restricting. This isn't the adrenaline-fueled affair she had with John, spent hiding from sight in motels, keeping things quiet so no one else knew. There's something just as thrilling in being open, unashamed or embarrassed or whatever else she told herself when doubts pressed in too close.

And now? Well, she won't be announcing anything to Broyles, but won't be hiding anything, either.

Her fingers feel warm, and Olivia frowns, moving her hand to touch his forehead when -

Loud ringing reverberates through the office.

Peter's head snaps up, slapping her hand away, blue eyes bloodshot and bleary. Olivia grabs for her phone and gives him an apologetic smile before answering.

"Dunham."

"It's happened again. I'll text you the address."

Broyles is short and to the point, a grounding voice to her thoughts. She nods out of habit. "Okay."

"Broyles?" Peter asks. He's rubbing his eyes, blinking in the lamplight.

"Yeah. There's been another incident."

* * *

><p>If it was cold in the morning, it's blistering, now. Even wrapped in his favorite scarf, with a hat pulled down low over his head, Peter can feel the cold leaking into his bones, making his movements stiff and awkward.<p>

Why did this have to happen _outside_?

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walks just a step behind Olivia, beside his father, chin tucked close to his chest. If he were being honest with himself, he'd admit that maybe he should have stayed at the house when they drove over to retrieve Walter. But the smell of apples had leaked into the damn _wood_ and he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand it and still have some sort of positive feelings towards applesauce if he stayed.

Of course, his father smells like the mix of applesauce and chicken, so he hasn't really gotten off easy.

"Walter," he says. And stops, because he doesn't have the energy to start up a conversation that may end a bit less than amicable right now.

"Yes?" Walter replies after a moment. "Were you saying something? I find the air tastes fantastic late at night."

He may be exhausted, but the comment catches him off-guard and he frowns, trying, as always, to find the thread of connection. Walter thinks in zig-zags, serpentine swirls through foreign territories where even Peter doesn't have a rudimentary grasp of the language (which, when he actually thinks about it, is hard to believe). He tries, anyway, working off that shared consciousness Walter rambled on about back when they shared a much-too-small hotel room, going off of that language learned in childhood. And maybe that's where the disconnect comes from - the slight variations between this Walter and the Other, a different word chosen here and there that lead to a dialect he grasps but never gained fluency in.

Just thinking has his eye burning. Peter rubs them, hopes that alleviates them long enough to get through this, another crime scene, another _gruesome_ scene, and then maybe he'll finally take Olivia's advice (without saying she is the direct cause) and crawl back into bed.

Except after this, Walter will be keyed-up with that second-victim energy, that additional information that comes with another body in his lab, and it'll be hard to bow out of the overnight casework without feeling guilty. Peter sighs, breath puffing out into the winter air, and tries to pick up his pace, if only to get away from the concoction of smells his father's currently wearing.

"Dunham," Broyles acknowledges, "Bishop."

"Sir."

Oh, Olivia, that military side always leaks around the edges, vestiges from the past. Peter doesn't imagine he'd ever call anyone sir, not without a gun in his face or leverage held over his head, and yet Olivia says it with such blaze; he almost admires her for it.

"Meet Richard Murphy, age forty-six," Broyles begins, leading them closer to the body covered in blue plastic. "He was heading home after a nightcap with a coworker when he suddenly collapsed."

Eyes cast on the edge of the plastic, where the tip of a shoe can be seen, Peter side-steps a line of dried blood in dark grey slush. It throws him off-balance, not quite a slip, but enough that he feels Olivia's hand grasp his upper arm, fingers digging into him, keeping him upright. She keeps hold after he regains his footing, and even though he knows he shouldn't, Peter glances over at Broyles, trying to gage his reaction.

The man's a damn statue.

Walter joins them, squatting down to lift an edge of the plastic. The body looks much like Miriam Ellis' - split skin, blood, and the growths that resemble raw sea sponges. You're not supposed to see those parts of a person, raw bits under the skin, and Peter winces and focuses on anything else. His father grins and claps before rubbing his hands together.

"Perhaps Mr. Murphy will be able to help us narrow down the additions to their blood," he announces. "Back to the lab, please."

Secure in knowing Walter's attention will be on the loading of the body, Peter turns to Broyles. "You said he was with a coworker?" he asks.

"Jason Mycsoki. Apparently, they work together for the Attorney Generals' office," he replies.

The fingers on Peter's arm loosen, just a bit.

"I take it the AG will have a vested interest in this case?" Olivia says.

"I'll take care of him. You figure out what's going on. I get that people think lawyers are bloodsuckers," Broyles replies, "but that doesn't mean we can let someone take out their personal vendetta on them."

Olivia nods. "That Mycsoki?" She tilts her chin in the direction of a man in a rumbled, wet coat beside a pair of agents.

"I'll leave you to it."

There's some sort of disconnect, because Peter thinks they're going to talk to the witness when, in fact, Olivia's intent on keeping him rooted to the spot; she tugs on his arm, moving to face him.

"Walk through this with me," she says. "Ellis worked as a paralegal at a firm downtown. Now, we have an assistant AG."

"You're thinking this is related to a case," Peter finishes.

"Do you remember anything from the Attorney Generals' office in Ellis' files?"

He thinks for a moment, wishing his mind wasn't so damn foggy. It trips up his normal recall, making him take longer to read over what he remembers off-hand and he's less certain than usual when he answers, "I don't think so."

And thinks he's gotten away with it until Olivia rubs his arm and says, "Peter, are you feeling okay?"

"You mean other than being nauseated by the smell of applesauce?" he responds with a smile. Olivia reflects it and drops her arm before putting her game face on. Witness interview, scene reports, evidence, a father who loves riding in coroner's vans way more than any living person should - and through all that, he's wondering if this is the point in a budding relationship when he should be masking the truth.

* * *

><p>With the body of their second victim on its way to the lab, Olivia splits off to retrieve some of the files from the office, hopeful she'll gain a second wind sometime between the Chinese take-out place near her apartment and midnight, a late-hour she hopes to reach with the aide of some good whiskey in her pantry. She wishes for other things, to not face an empty apartment, to not be alone, but doesn't know how to navigate this uncharted territory. Her driving's faster than the coroner's van, and she's a wisp out the door before they even pull to the curb.<p>

* * *

><p>Astrid stays with Walter long enough to collect samples and take photographs of the newest body before it's put on ice in a closet she's sure was installed for just this purpose, thirty-odd years ago. He goes on and on about applesauce and recipes he can't quite remember while Astrid does a final sweep around the lab - she makes sure no burners are on or chemicals are left open (a lesson she learned after one instance when fumes were left to build-up overnight), that all the lights are off, Gene is okay, and then locks up behind him.<p>

These days, she doesn't ask where Peter is; they've gone back and forth for so many years, now, that he's come to depend on her. And while some may resent it, Astrid knows he'd never do so without a good reason. So she bundles Walter into her car and smiles as he asks for a side-trip to the grocery store to grab some samples for his nighttime experiments, then helps carry them through the house into the kitchen.

They laugh over hot chocolate. She tries a few of his attempts and tries to make a polite face, but he never sees through to the grimace underneath. Or maybe he chooses not to. Astrid is never sure, and never probes. Puts on her jacket and says she'll see him tomorrow. Walter says he'll have a better hypothesis by then, fueled by hours searching for the perfect applesauce.

There's snow falling as Astrid walks to her car at the curb. It gathers on her hat, on her eyelashes, and she draws a shape in it before brushing it from her windshield.

* * *

><p>Peter wakes at three am, coughing his lungs out. He downs some more Ny-Quil, runs a hand down his face, and stares at the ceiling, counting headlights as they swing through his window and cast long shadows that look, when his eyelids begin to fall, like monsters that steal children from their beds at night.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Hola, darlings!

Here's chapter three. Looking back over it, this is the shortest of the 10 chapters. Sorry! This was the best place to cut things. But fear not - you'll get chapter 4 on Friday. You can make it till then, right? ;)

Thank you for all your reviews! If RL wasn't so busy (I run my own business!), I would give every one of you love in a timely manner. As it stands, I read them and hug them to my chest and feel the love and plan on answering them soon.

XO, miss kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

She's finished with her morning workout routine and brushing her teeth when her cell phone, placed precariously on the kitchen counter, begins to ring. Olivia curses and throws her toothbrush into the sink, rolling her eyes at the interruption while walking into the kitchen. The phone vibrates across the hard surface and clatters to the ground; she swoops gracefully to grab it, answering as she puts it to her ear.

"Dunham."

"The Attorney General's office has given you clearance to review all of Murphy's current open cases. They're sending over his files now," Broyles tells her. She glances at the clock on the microwave: 7:13 am. And she thinks _she_ never sleeps.

"Thank you, sir," says Olivia.

The water is still running in her bathroom, and while they talk, she walks in and turns it off, holds the phone away from her face as she spits out the toothpaste still in her mouth. She grimaces at the medicinal taste and turns the water back on to wash out her mouth, a hand cupping the water while she holds her phone in the other.

"I asked them if there was any connection to the case Ellis was working on," Broyles continues. "Murphy worked as an investigator for them, so you'll have more luck looking through his notes than interviewing anyone."

She nods, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Investigators were an important part of prepping for a case but often worked in shades of grey. As a military prosecutor, she often gained useful information from her investigators, though their methods were never discussed. She thinks back to those days and tries to put herself in Murphy's shoes - where he was going, who he was talking to.

"I'll be in soon," she tells Broyles, and hangs up.

Olivia pauses, phone in hand, and considers how to go about her day. A trip to Medfield is needed in order to get an idea of what Miriam Ellis could have been exposed to the weekend before her unusual death, but the addition of a second victim changes things. Maybe reading through Murphy's notes will give her that sliver of overlap between their lives - there's a prickle of doubt, as usual, that they won't overlap, won't have anything in common, and her job will be made that much harder.

"There's always something," she says to her reflection. Nods and holds her chin up: time to get moving.

She's back in her room, looking through her various dark suits when she dials the phone and listens as it rings. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if no one will answer, and then, with a click:

"Yeah?"

Unconsciously, she smiles, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she plucks an outfit from her closet.

"Apparently, Murphy was an investigator with the AG's office," she begins, laying the suit down on her bed. "And I was thinking that I have someone who's pretty much an investigator. You know, with the weird friends and shady connections."

"Not all my friends are weird."

"Yeah, they are." She puts the phone back in her hand as she goes for a crisp white button-down.

"Haven't we had this conversation before?"

She laughs. "Good point. You up for a trip to Medfield? I have to stop by the Federal Building to grab some files of Murphy's, but then was thinking - "

"I'll meet you at the lab in an hour," Peter says between coughs. Olivia frowns, pausing as she picks out socks, and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Yeah. I'll be ready."

"It's been over a week, Peter. Maybe you should go to a doctor, get checked out."

He laughs, the sound rough. "When I have my very own mad scientist here? Naw, I'll be fine. It isn't the first time."

She sighs, flopping back into the pillows. "I miss you."

"As soon as I'm not infectious, I'm yours."

"Okay," she gives in. "An hour?"

"Yeah." He pauses, and she can hear rustling on his end of the phone, imagines him doing the same as her - the normal, mundane tasks of getting ready for the day. It's easy to picture, a memory tweaked by circumstance, and she closes her eyes to make it all the more real. "I'll have Walter take a look later, okay?"

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and opens her eyes. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

Long after she's hung up and gotten dressed, as she washes the milk from her cereal bowl, the coffee from a dark mug, Olivia realizes she's looking forward to a day running around, asking questions, following leads. And how she hasn't felt this way in awhile.

Perhaps those cracks can mend, over time.

* * *

><p>Wincing, Astrid goes over her notes one more time, and then hits stop on the surveillance video. She's got some kind of time-frame down, but it's required watching both the videos from the coffee shop and traffic cam footage sent over sometime before she arrived that morning, but it doesn't get any easier to watch the sixth time through. And here, she thought she'd become largely desensitized to the death part of their job.<p>

Using Walter as a baseline, Astrid perks up when she realizes she's the most-normal of the group.

This time in the morning, when it's just her, the hum of several computers and pieces of warming-up equipment, and Gene, chewing happily in the corner, is hers. Paperwork is completed, requests put in, evidence catalogued in case a court somewhere decides to prosecute a case. The floors are clean and the desks are clear, and she's begun weeding Walter's experiments out of the normal refrigerator and into one she's designated for them after what happened last time.

She knows her time is up when she can hear voices speaking animatedly in the hallway, boots falling on worn tile, and hopes there's extra coffee, because she needs it.

" - and where are you going to store all of this, huh, Walter?" Peter's saying, voice rounded by congestion.

"There's an extra bedroom! Yes! I can put the jars up there!" exclaims Walter, smiling at his solution. The two enter the lab and descend the stairs, Walter shrugging out of his coat and throwing it over a chair before standing in the center of the room.

"They need to be refrigerated," counters Peter. Unlike his father, he keeps his jacket on, but - oh, thank God! - is balancing a drink tray holding three coffee cups in his left hand.

"Not until _after_ you open them! It's perfect! Peter, do you think you could switch to the empty room? Yours is easier to access from the stairs, you know, and - Ah, good morning, Agent Farnsworth! How are you today?"

Two pairs of eyes swivel in her direction, faces wearing near identical smiles. She's grown to see Walter as an adopted uncle of some sort, one she enjoys spending time with, and at times, is a little jealous of how much devotion Walter shows Peter. And then she sees them together, listens to their little conversations, how they go after a theory in such similar tones, and realizes that, despite how much Peter may fight it, they're so very alike.

Peter may remember her coffee, but Walter knows her favorite flavor of taffy.

"Please say that's for me," Astrid greets, pointing at the coffee cups. Peter smiles and holds one out for her, which she takes and drinks down greedily. "Oh, that's delicious. I've been looking over the video we have for both victims, and I think I've figured out how long it took for them to die."

She knows that'll catch their attention, and it does; Peter grabs one of the cups for himself and leaves the remaining on a lab table before joining Astrid at her computer. Walter's taken her seat, so she stands next to him to control the mouse.

"Okay, so first, it seems both Ellis and Murphy can tell something's wrong and they stop," she starts, clicking play. Both videos play simultaneously, tiled next to each other. "Fifteen seconds later, they seem to not be able to breathe."

"A quick multiplication of lung tissue, yes, yes," interjects Walter.

"Then, they fall, but seem to remain conscious for another thirty seconds."

The video finishes for her. Both victims fall, bystanders shocked, and Astrid stops the videos, not wanting to see it all happen again.

"From start to finish, it took three minutes and thirty seconds from beginning to end," Astrid reads from her notes.

"Three thirty exactly, dear?"

"Mmmhmm. Timed it three times just to make sure."

Walter nods and swivels in the chair to face them. "Makes it less probable that this was a natural-occurring event." He crosses his arms, thinking. "Whatever was introduced into their bloodstreams must be mechanical in some way. No, no! There was nothing like that in their blood work."

"You're thinking bio-engineered?" prompts Peter. "Miriam Ellis' husband said she visited Medfield on Saturday, but nothing happened until Tuesday. Neither died at the same time of day. What if there's a gestation period?"

"A biological trigger? Yes! It's possible!" Walter gives Peter a brilliant smile and hops off the stool, heading for the peg where he hung his lab coat. "Astrid, can you retrieve those samples, please? I have a few theories I'd like to test."

* * *

><p>The cold has let up, if by a fraction, and while grey clouds hang low over the greater Boston area, there's no threat of snow. A warm-up of five degrees has more people out and about, bundled if a bit lighter than the day before; gloves tucked in pockets or left on foyer tables. By nine, when Olivia pulls out of the parking lot of Harvard's Kresge building, the sun's managed to poke a few holes in the bleary, ever-present winter cloud cover, reflecting off the white on the ground enough to have her pulling out a pair of sunglasses from the SUV's center console.<p>

She follows the twists and turns to I-90. Heat pours from the vents, her feet almost tingling, and she wishes it would travel to her hands. She flexes them a few times, rubbing her knuckles, and tries to think of summer.

"According to this, Miriam Ellis left around 11:15 am and arrived thirty minutes later, give or take," Peter says from the passenger seat. The file on Ellis sits on his lap, pages flipped back to reveal the GPS data from her drive the Saturday before.

"Is there anything that says that Murphy's been to the same place?" she counters, turning onto the on-ramp.

"Hold on." She focuses on traffic and hears the rustling of papers as he switches files. "His notes don't say anything, but I think there's a notation here that might mean he met with someone out in Medfield on Monday. I haven't had a chance to check it out, yet."

"What were you doing all morning?" she jokes, sliding into rushing traffic.

Peter chuckles. "Walter has decided he'd like to jar his own jams and requested I move my room for easier storage access."

"Jams?"

"Yeah. Possibly marmalade."

"I thought he was working on applesauce?"

"And tomorrow, he'll be onto some other odd food connection. While I understand the theory behind it, I think Walter's taken sense memory to a whole new level."

"C'mon, it's kinda cute," Olivia smiles, glancing over at him.

"You don't have to wake up to a kitchen full of whatever he's working on. At 3am."

"As long as it works, right?" she counters. "Okay, did Ellis make any stops on the way out there?"

"Nope. Straight through." He shifts and twists in the seat, then leans forward and clicks on the radio, searching through the untouched pre-sets before tuning to find a specific station. They've rarely listened to music in the car before, those times they have more fluke accidents than intentional. This move feels, at least to Olivia, a bit more intimate, showing a level of comfort they've only recently descended into.

Except Olivia isn't a huge fan of listening to music while driving. In fact, her computer boasts only a few albums, rarely listened to; she doesn't have time to stay on top of what's new or actively listen. Her schedule is too frantic, too unpredictable, with little down time spent doing anything other than sleeping.

She takes her eyes from the road for just a moment to look over at her passenger. Peter has his eyes closed and head leaned back against the rest, fingers of his left hand tapping along to the beat of the music. She grabs what she can, thinking back to those oboe lessons, foot tapping on the tiled floor, and falls into the music as she watches the exits pass.

The GPS directions bring them to an empty lot beside a half-closed strip mall, snow piled up along the curb in front of it. Olivia takes in the scene through the windshield, not looking forward to leaving the warm cocoon of the car, air comfortable after forty minutes of driving. Beside her, Peter looks around, frowning, hands on the papers in his lap as if he can read between the lines through his gloves.

"Okay, so why would her GPS lead her _here_?" voices Olivia, leaning forward in her seat.

The lot is overgrown, the fence rusted, the sign missing letters or numbers from the leasing agent's info. It hangs crooked, one of the rungs broken and hanging, almost iced to the chain-link behind it. With a huff, Olivia flops back and re-checks the SUV's GPS unit, clicking through options, wondering if she made a wrong turn somewhere.

Something clicks in Peter's head - she's been around him long enough to see when the light-bulb goes off, how his eyes brighten and his movements quicken.

"You know, I had a friend who used to write out directions to his house. This was back when GPS units were new, so no one really questioned it," he rambles, talking with his hands. "But he used to say the GPS units would lead people to the wrong place."

"Faulty programming?"

He chuckles. "Two streets with the same name in the same zip code. I bet you ten dollars there's another Archer Ave. in Medfield."

"And take your money so easily? I know how little civilian consultants get paid, you know."

"Really? You're looking into my records? That's fantastic. I'm so glad I signed my life away."

She shrugs.

Peter's smile widens. "And yet, I can spare the money. You don't know everything about me, Olivia Dunham."

"If you have an off-shore account, I believe you are required to disclose it to the FBI."

"I admit nothing."

She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, smiling but wondering just how much is buried under the surface. Even after three years, there's still blank spots in her knowledge of Peter Bishop, blind spots even her combing of various law enforcement databases can't shine light on. And while Olivia knows his deepest secret and can trust him with her life, there's a part of her brain - the cop part, she thinks - that knows he's capable of a lot of darkness.

And probably has more skeletons in his closet than her.

Olivia flips her hair back over her shoulders, unable to run her hand over it while wearing a hat. "So I'm Miriam Ellis. My GPS leads me to the middle of nowhere. What do I do next?" She can almost see Ellis sitting in her car just in front of them, confused, checking her GPS and the address she's been given by her boss. Wait - "Do we have her phone records?"

"Yeah." Peter goes through the file, gets frustrated, and pulls off a glove with his teeth. It hangs from his mouth as he runs a finger down a list of numbers. "She called a private cell phone three minutes after arriving, but the call only lasted thirty seconds."

"So she calls her boss, gets voicemail. What next?"

"Pie."

"What?" The non-sequitur pulls Olivia from her frame of thought, and the vision of Miriam Ellis fades from view.

Peter points out the windshield at a sign down the street. "It's cold and she's not driving back out here. So I'd say she went in for a slice of pie until she could get a hold of her boss."


	4. Chapter 4

Here's a nice, long chapter for you! It's sciency and fun and don't you just want to hug them all?

Many thanks to RainSummers, who sent a review reminding me it's Friday. OMG stuff like that makes me feel all special and totally pumps me up to write more! I think I'll work on my next fic this afternoon while you guys read.

Much love!  
>Kira<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

Walter throws his pen on the table with such force, it pings off the tabletop and clatters to the floor. "Damn!"

A year ago, the sharp tone of his voice would have drawn her attention; now, Astrid simply lets out a little sigh and clicks through to the next analysis screen, going through graphs and listings of chemical compounds found in the blood of both Ellis and Murphy. She no longer has to refer to the stack of chemistry books she unearthed from the office two days after realizing her assignment was more than temporary to understand most of what's going on.

"Walter, the blood results have come through," she calls to him. "Would you like to come take a look?"

He grumbles but hops off his stool and stomps over to her, arms crossed.

"Here," she says, turning the computer screen. "What has you all upset?"

"Those damn cells are perfectly normal! Nothing striking at all."

"But isn't that good news?"

Walter's reading the results, now, no longer paying attention to Astrid, so she lets the smile on her face drop as she re-reads them, trying to read the same patterns her quirky ward plucks from them.

"That's odd," frowns Walter. "There is no indication of elevated white blood cell count, yet there is a high concentration of tetracycline hydrochloride in the blood of both victims."

"Tetracycline? Wait, that sounds familiar." She puts a finger to her lips, thinking. Where has she heard that information before? It isn't some compound she may have run across during the past three years; it feels more immediate, more real, if that could be considered, here. Accessible.

"A polykeptide bacterium, my dear."

It clicks. "An antibiotic! My sister was on that when she was sick last year! But that doesn't make sense - that stuff doesn't build up in your system, does it?"

"No, no, of course. That is why you must take every dosage, even after you have begun to feel better. However, if either of," - he waves his hand in the air in their general direction - "them were taking them for prescribed reasons, they would have an elevated white cell count to indicate an infection."

"You can't die from antibiotics, Walter."

"Not normally, no. But the lack of them, that is a completely different matter," he says with a smile. "I will need three dozen _Anopheles quadrimaculatus_, please."

* * *

><p>Olivia motions across the table with her fork. "I thought pecan was your favorite."<p>

Peter looks down at the three bites taken from the triangle slice of pie, and pushes a bit around with his own fork. "It is. This, however, barely resembles it."

A half-truth, but Olivia believes it and gives him a grin. "The peanut butter is fantastic."

Luckily, she doesn't offer him any. His stomach's been flip-flopping for a few days, uncomfortable nausea kept under control through focus and deep breaths at the right times. He's not one to throw up, never has been. Even with most of the memories of his unhealthy childhood lost (to places he doesn't know, will never know), his body seems to remember and feels he's fulfilled his lifetime quota.

Two bites of the pie - delicious, heavenly pie - brought it roaring up, going for a full gymnastics routine, and the hell with _that_.

He pushes the plate away to make room for the stack of files brought in from the car, ungloved hands easily paging through the personal data, cell phone records, short histories, and financial accounts. His eyes are drawn to the scribblings of the second victim and his unique shorthand probably developed to keep others from stealing his notes; personally, Peter preferred a more paperless existence, but knows not everyone can be gifted with such a well-behaving memory.

There's an intersection they haven't found, yet, where the two paths cross. Find that, and they'll find their crime scene, though the idea of wandering off to search for mosquitoes after two people have already died doesn't sound like the sanest idea.

He can make sense of half the markings, and is so intent on them, he doesn't notice the waitress come up to refill Olivia's mug with thick, caffeinated coffee he's sure would turn his stomach despite a loath, creeping fatigue.

"Hey, who is that?" the waitress asks. Her finger, red polish cracked near the tip, taps on the photo of Murphy paper-clipped inside the file.

Olivia seems to catch on at the same moment as Peter, because she's abandoned her pie for eye-contact with the petite woman. "Have you seen him before?"

"Yeah. Came in over the weekend looking for someone. Asked a lot of questions - I remember because we were busy and he kept waving me over. I lost tips, I'm sure."

"Do you remember exactly _when_ he was here?" tries Olivia.

The waitress places the plastic container of coffee down on the table and does some quick mental reshuffling before putting a hand on a hip. "Why? Is he dangerous?"

"I doubt it," Peter interjects, "He's dead."

Olivia shoots him a quick glare from across the table, brow furrowing at his off-color remark to a possible witness; she's used to him hanging back, keeping his comments to himself, and for the life of him, he wonders where his right mind went. Or at least his reformed discretion in the field. He rubs his forehead and holds back a groan as the overpowering smell of coffee wafts off the coffeepot.

"Oh my God," the waitress gasps, "I've never known someone who's died before. At least not family, but that never really counts, does it?"

"Do you remember anything about his visit here? Uh, if he was with anyone or maybe something you overheard?" tries Olivia.

Peter pages through the files, searching out a photo of Miriam Ellis, licking his fingers in the dry climate every few pages. When he finds one, he slides it across the table; Olivia's eyes stay on the waitress, but she takes the photo from him.

"He came in here Sunday afternoon, ordered some coffee, and asked me the same things you are," she reports, eyes suddenly suspicious.

Peter laughs. "Don't worry, we're the good guys. Let me guess, he was looking for a woman, right? This woman?" Olivia holds out the photo, lets the waitress snatch it from her fingers. "Asked if she'd been here, where she was going, things like that."

"Yeah. I didn't serve her, but Missy did. She said this girl was trying to find Archer, that her GPS lead her here." The waitress laughs as the photo falls back to the table. "It happens all the time, I told Matt, the manager, we should just put a map with directions on the door. He said it'd drive away half our customers. Missy gave her directions and the guy said thanks. Didn't even finish his coffee before jumping out of here."

"Did either of them say anything else?" jumps in Olivia.

"Not that I remember."

"Is Missy here by any chance?"

She shakes her head, suddenly interested in the coffeepot she left on the table, and fiddles with the handle for a moment before picking it up. Her eyes are hooded, halfway closed, and as though she heard someone from far off, looks down the diner.

"Her day off. Listen, I have other customers."

From the way Olivia's posture tightens, she's come to the same conclusion as Peter, but doesn't let on. While she deals with the waitress' departure, Peter glances around the diner, noting the glaring _lack_ of customers at that odd time before breakfast and lunch, and just as he's about to turn his attention back to Olivia, he notices a man sitting at the counter, an untouched paper in front of him.

It's only practice that keeps Peter's eyes from lingering on the man; he barely breaks his sweep back to Olivia and smiles as though he's been paying attention the entire time.

As soon as the waitress clears earshot, he says, "We have an audience."

And her reaction - almost imperceptible surprise - is just another reason he's fallen for this woman, _hard_. He holds off complimenting her poker face just yet, and taps a finger on the table in place of a nod.

"There's something up," Olivia agrees. "But what?"

"Keep talking," he tells her. Closing the files can't be obvious, but leaving them open only gives the man at the counter more time to figure out who they are and what information they hold. He keeps a smile on his face and folds up a few of the files to make room for his pie. A few bites won't hurt, he tells himself, and actually enjoys half the slice in that heightened state that comes from eluding a tail.

A part of his mind wakes up and says hello.

"So," she starts, and from that tone, he knows she's going somewhere different, "what's your favorite color?"

"What?"

"I've realized we've been working together for, what, three years? And I have no idea what your favorite color is. But I think I know, actually." She smiles and tilts her head to the side. "It's blue, isn't it. Dark blue."

"Yeah," and here his smile's genuine, "am I that obvious?"

"Sometimes." She's being cryptic on purpose, and damn if she knows that drives him crazy. "How long do you think he's been sitting there?"

"Usually, I'd be on top of something like this," he admits, "so I'm a bit embarrassed when I say I don't know."

"Aww, don't beat yourself up, Peter. Despite what you say, we all know you're still sick."

There's a bit of sadness, there, a softening that reminds him just how much he lacks experiance at stuff like this - at relating to someone else, trusting them. He knows that's what makes them work; how they both have pasts and built walls to protect themselves, and thus know the rules. He sighs and lets his fork clatter to his plate, giving the man at the counter a sideways glance in his peripheral vision.

"I'm not used to having anyone care," he says, then winces and adds: "Since I left home, I've been pretty much on my own, and the type of people I dealt with didn't give you sick days."

As if on cue, that tickle in the back of his throat returns.

He doesn't hear her answer, because he can't quell it with a quick gulp of water; instead of one or two deep coughs that have been plaguing him all morning, this comes as a kamikaze attack and if he doesn't see one of his lungs sitting on the table when this is done, he'll be surprised. Honestly, he feels like he's suffocating, and grips the edge of the table.

After a moment, Peter feels Olivia's hand rubbing his back and leans into the touch, letting his head flop down on the back of the booth.

"So what's that all about?" she asks from beside him.

It takes him a minute to realize he doesn't really know. She hands him some water just the same, and it does little to make his throat feel better.

* * *

><p>He hates those damn tanks.<p>

Eyes focused anywhere but the three liquid-filled tanks against the north wall of the lab area, Carlile slaps a pile of manila folders down on the desk and hopes this will be a short visit. Sometimes, you have to take whatever job comes your way.

The room is white, bright as the sun during his last trip to the coast, and has a constant buzzing that sounds like a bee stuck in your ear. It'll persist for at least ten minutes after he leaves, sounding off, worming its way into his brain. How the researchers in this building can stand it for eight or ten hours a day, he doesn't know.

But he won't be staying long.

"The manager of Mel's called," he begins even though he's lacking a captive audience. The lone man in the room, white coat helping him blend into his surroundings, is bent over a counter, barely paying attention.

"Someone's asking after your work," continues Carlile. "Apparently, there were a few deaths down in Boston that got you some hot attention."

"Not me," the man responds. "Right?"

"They won't connect the dots, no, but I thought you should know. I brought what I could dig up."

The man huffs and sighs, putting something down before turning to face him. Dr. Richard Underhil is young and naive; the type of person Carlile usually scoffs at. His ideals are high and sometimes preachy, his work his life.

"You know," Carlile adds, "to add to your files or whatever."

"For someone who claims he doesn't like science, you sure do stay on top of things," Underhil almost _winks_, grabbing the files to page through them.

Carlile shrugs. "I investigate people. You investigate bugs. I know when information's valuable to the outcome of something."

"You sure do." Underhil lifts one of the folders from the table and examines the photos within - how he can, Carlile doesn't know. He's seen some sick shit in his life, and that stuff? Even Carlile had a hard time wiping it from his mind. "Can you get me more data? I need to know their blood content levels, as well as any chemical readings from the replicated cells themselves."

"Excuse me?"

Underhil looks up. "More information."

"Okay, excuse me for a second here, Doc. Two people are dead, and you want more info?"

"It's tragic, yes - "

"How did it even happen?" cuts in Carlile.

"There's a survival rate, an early defrost in some areas - "

"Ten thousand."

"What?"

"Ten thousand and I'll get your data for you. And that's negotiable, because I haven't been able to find who actually has the victims. But before I do, let me give you a piece of advice." He steps up to the desk, his 6'5" frame towering over the scientist, his shadow devouring him. "You better be sure you want to go down this path, Doc. Cause no matter how altruistic you may think your work is, it's a black mark."

Underhil smiles. "We've already discussed this. It's for the greater good."

"Sure," snorts Carlile. "Tell that to them."

* * *

><p>"You're not going to believe this," starts Peter from across the porch, "but this place is empty."<p>

"What?" Olivia frowns. She turns her attention from the front door and crosses the porch in long strides, boots making a small trail of footprints beside Peter's as she joins him at the bay window. He steps back, allowing her to press her nose against the cold glass and see inside through a gap in white, gossamer curtains.

The floors are shining, wood, and empty.

Her frown deepens. She takes a few steps back and tries to order her thoughts to the tune of a few loose, deep coughs. There are stacks of files in the SUV, sheets of paper with all the information the FBI could dig up on their victims, and yet none of them hinted to this.

"So Ellis' employer sent her to an empty house?" she's asking herself as she whirls to face Peter.

"Or it wasn't empty on Saturday," he offers, arms crossed as he leans against the railing. "Do you want to go inside and look around?"

"I just need a second to think," she replies. "So Miriam Ellis is called on Saturday and given an address. She goes, ends up going to the one place in town that messes with GPS systems, and arrives, later, at an empty house." She sighs, frustrated.

"We're assuming her office called her."

Olivia stops and turns, frowning.

"Ellis was going into work on Monday morning, right?" he continues. At her nod, he pushes forward, wobbles a bit, and tries to look smooth as he returns to leaning. "Go with me. She never heard back from her bosses at the diner. We don't have any proof they called her back. While everyone's said she was annoyed, no one knows what _happened_. This place could have been empty then."

"She was baited."

Peter nods. "So, shall we?"

He motions to the front door, and Olivia hesitates, trying to figure out which location hosted the mosquitoes that ultimately lead to their deaths. She wants to solve this mystery, but wants to be _alive_ when she solves it.

"How likely are there to be killer mosquitoes in there?"

"Good point."

She smiles slyly, tilting her head to the side. "And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

"Oh, really?" he banters. "It's nice to know I can still surprise you with my lack of forethought."

And this is what she was running from for all those months? This easy and relaxed partnership? She wonders if she hadn't gone through all she had, from that first case to today, if she would be able to appreciate what has grown between them. A late-night confession revealed he'd been pining for her from the beginning, and her equally-unanticipated response let him know she'd always been impressed.

That easy, misspent genius.

"Let's walk the perimeter before we go."

He nods and holds out his hand. She smiles – blushes, really – and takes it before they walk down the steps.

* * *

><p>Oh, she <em>so<em> didn't sign up for this.

"You're so smart, Astrid, and the FBI wants you! You should take the job," her mother had told her, four years ago. She loved the challenge, and found the classes enlightening. When she'd been promoted to work as a junior agent, she saw it as a way to learn from a seasoned agent in the field, not an insult, as some of her classmates did. And when she found she was working for a woman, and a decorated, hard-ass one at that - Astrid thought she'd won some sort of governmental lottery.

Then she was asked to find a ginger ale.

And while she still fills out paperwork and does research - both tasks she'd performed with pep for Olivia - her current work as lab assistant to Walter has significantly altered her career outlook.

Walter is currently gazing longingly at the box holding three dozen mosquitoes, eyes darting around as they zip through the air, finger following one, than another before he laughs. These moments are less frequent than when they began working together, those times when she knows he's not all here marked by the odd names he calls her. She's Astrid eighty percent of the time, his lucidity remarkable after only three years and who knows how much self-medicating.

"It seems they are unaffected by the introduction of bacteria!"

She wants to snap, really, but that would be counter-productive. Instead, Astrid tries to ignore the four mosquito bites on her left hand, raised red dots climbing up her skin, a stairway leading to nowhere. She's a bit hungry; her cell phone says it's nearly one in the afternoon, and she's sick of living on vending machine food.

And it's _winter_. She should have to worry about bites.

"Walter, you didn't add anything to them _before_ we put them in there, did you?" she asks, suddenly wondering what type of pathogen she's possibly been exposed to.

"Which time?"

Astrid sighs. "The first time."

"Oh, no, nothing. I simply needed a test subject to infect the rest of them. Of course, they don't spread disease themselves; you may develop a stuffy nose."

She blinks and tracks back his answer. Her mouth opens to say something along the lines of _I'm an assistant, not a test subject_, but notes bites on his skin, the red bright against his lighter complexion.

The door clicks open, the single one on the north side, and closer to the side lot. There isn't much room out there, what with the lines being buried by drifting snow, and she can hear boots stomping on the mat just inside the door before heading her way. Her stomach growls in anticipation.

"Hey," Olivia breathes in greeting. "How's it going?"

"Walter may have given me a cold by infecting mosquitoes," she replies, deadpan, her eyes almost scolding the scientist. For his part, Walter doesn't take the glare as he should - he never does - but apologizes nonetheless.

"You have a bad habit of experimenting on people without their permission," chimes in Peter. There's a dark undercurrent to his comment, a sizzling energy originating from wherever he keeps locked-up emotions. Astrid's spent her share of time with the Bishops, far from cases or other agents, and knows their path would be a perfect haunted dreamscape, complete with dead trees and dark, spindly branches.

There's sunlight streaming through, now, but the shadows are still deep.

"I was merely attempting to prove a theory on the method of dispersal!" he says, animated and defensive. "I doubt neither myself or Astrid will develop any symptoms. I simply need a blood sample to know conclusively if my hypothesis was, indeed, correct."

"Okay. What have you learned?" asks Olivia. Her cheeks are red from time spent outside, and after she peels off her jacket, she hugs herself for extra warmth.

"I was once asked if it were possible to infect enemy soldiers with a virus engineered to incapacitate them temporarily."

"You were asked to give people the flu," sums up Olivia.

"Yes! Or any number of infectious bacteria or virus. However, the problem was how to _contain_ whatever method was used after it was effective. We needed to infect the target, and then kill the source of the infection."

"And the mosquitoes?" Peter says.

Walter rounds the tank, partially blocking Astrid's view of the insects buzzing inside. She's heard all this before, naturally, and feels like someone hearing a hilarious joke for the second time - she already knows the punch line.

"They're perfect hosts! Unlike most species, this one, _Anopheles quadrimaculatus, _is able to not only hold a parasite, but spread it via its saliva, and, of course, offspring."

"Hold on," remarks Peter. He's more animated, and steps forward, hands held in front of him. "Are you saying the mosquitoes that bit these people had _malaria_ in them?"

"Wait a second, malaria?" says Olivia. There's a rush of energy that enters the room, probably through a half-closed door somewhere, wind from that place of panic they seem to visit all too often.

"Originally, malaria was a world-wide disease. It has been eradicated from most countries through the use of pesticides and prevention control - "

"What about _these_ mosquitoes, Walter," interrupts Olivia.

"I was getting to that. We discovered the blood of our two victims contained a high dosage of Tetracycline Hydrochloride."

Olivia gives Peter a sideways glance, to which he says, "Antibiotics."

Even Astrid, who's heard much of this already, is finding Walter's train of thought difficult to follow, and interjected questions have fragmented the lucid explanation. She sees Olivia struggling to add everything up in her head, fit words and theories into numbers she can then process and remember, and knows the moment she falls short.

Olivia's shaking her head. "Walter, I don't understand."

"Tetracycline's been used in mosquito vector control in several near and far eastern countries for the past six years or so," Peter begins filling in, pulling from an inexhaustible deluge of random facts he's acquired over the years. "The mosquitoes are genetically modified to die if not given regular doses."

"Really?" Walter asks, and he says it with more of a scoff than surprise. "Why, we were altering insect genomes years before that! To think it took them so long to create a transgenic gene," he trails off, shaking his head. "The key here is not that the mosquitoes need regular doses, but that they transmit this gene to potential offspring, effectively rendering the female unable to bring her eggs to term."

"Thus reducing your friendly mosquito population," finishes Peter. "Thanks for the entomology lesson, Walter, but I'm with Olivia on this one; what does that have to do with our disfigured victims?"

"Yes! I was curious about why the levels of tetracycline were so high in our victims. It seems as though these mosquitoes were not only altered to carry the fatal gene, but to carry an antibody against infection and disease as well!" He nearly hops. His eyes shine, and Astrid knows that expression - he's impressed with the scientific might of their unseen opponent.

"So these people were infected with something and then, what? That's what caused the mutations?" ventures Olivia.

"I theorize that whatever mechanism was used to replicate the cure in the infected person's bloodstream had a fail-safe that failed."

"That's poetry right there," Peter says. His voice is rough, coming out strained after a short bout of coughing, and he clears his throat almost self-consciously.

"What caused this failure?" Olivia asks.

Walter sighs and shakes his head, this time downtrodden by the puzzle before them. "I have yet to discover the flaw."

"Walter, we have to find out what caused these people to have these reactions. If we're dealing with mosquitoes, there could be hundreds of people out there who may have been bitten." Armed with more information, Olivia's figured her plan of attack and moves with sure strokes. "Astrid, you said there was a set time-frame between infection and death, right?"

She blinks and comes back to herself. "Uh, yeah. 36 hours or so, based on the data from Miriam Ellis' GPS and the tapes from the coffee shop."

"We need to find out who would have the knowledge to create these mosquitoes. Is there any way you can find out - "

" - what research is being done into this field at any of the nearby universities and companies," Astrid finishes flawlessly. "I'm on it."

Olivia turns to Peter, opens her mouth to say something, and then decides against it. She twists to face Astrid again and gives her a sly smile. "How about a little field work, Agent Farnsworth?"

She smiles. _Like music to my ears_. But has enough discretion to leave that part silent.


	5. Chapter 5

I know, I know, I said Tuesday and Friday. But then I got lovely messages from an anon and Clem over on Tumblr, and I really love this chapter to death, so I'm being charitable and posting early. So enjoy and please comment and then I can go back to writing my next fic because things are awesome like that.

XO, kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

Humming a tune certainly clears the mental pathways. Walter knows the research correlation between music - particularly classical music, with its climbing scales of quick notes, long pauses, and melodic storytelling - and increased mental function, has seen those new MRI images that support what was once a theory, and feels validated, _scientifically_, of course. He pauses, a test tube in one hand, at the thought that he never got to throw _that_ in Belly's face. Oh, how glorious it would have been to be able to defend his habit of listening to music while working on the more complex chemical workings with _scientific proof_ to the old sour-face. Ha! How fantastic, indeed! If only he could have seen the look on Belly's face at _that_ little nugget of truth!

His feet dance a bit to the melody currently playing from his repaired turntable. While CDs are miles ahead of cassette tapes, they are still digital compressions of vinyl records, and sampling - a concept he can _hardly_ agree with; it degrades so many of the nuances of music! - has nothing on the real thing.

"Astrid," he calls, feeling the notes under his fingers like Braille floating on air, "do you recall where I placed that one album. I can't, for the life of me, remember what it was called, but it had a blue cover. Yes, a blue cover, and something yellow."

When he receives no reply, Walter opens his eyes, disappointed to leave his musical revere.

"Dear?"

"Astrid's not here, Walter."

This reply, nothing like the once he expected, confuses him for a moment, and he walks, test tube still clasped tightly in one hand, in the direction of the voice, hoping to gain a better vantage point.

Ah, yes! Yes, how could he forget? He is working in the lab with Peter! He could almost slap himself for such a contrite slip of thought.

"Yes! Peter! Would you, by chance, know which album I'm talking about? There's a wonderful bridge section in one of the songs that I feel would be a perfect accompaniment to isolating the correct parasites in these blood samples." He holds the test tube up, the dark red material inside sloshing up the sides of the glass.

Peter looks up from the computer he's working on, and Walter notes the lack of rhythmic typing that had been added to his current musical selection. Perhaps he can get back to work, now, without the infrequent, staccato beat invading his perfectly good record?

His son sighs and rubs his face. "I have no idea what album you're talking about."

"Ah," Walter sighs, and then adds, "I don't know why Olivia insisted on taking Astrid with her; she'd know exactly what I was talking about. These bits aren't going to separate themselves!"

But Peter's attention has fallen back to the computer screen.

Walter congratulates himself for not being cross with the boy; he recognizes the change in his own temperament over the past two or three years (time has always been a hard constant for him to internalize), and how he has been able to successfully separate his need to discipline Peter as a child and work with him as an adult. It was, as one could imagine, quite difficult, what with him missing so many years of development.

He stands, just for a moment, watching his son. It has always been a favorite past time of his, and he blames part of it on the breath-stealing aspect of his son's tragic disease; instead of watching to make sure he's still breathing, this practice has evolved into something more. If he's honest and lucid, he'd recognize his need to see Elizabeth one more time, and feels, in those moments, a pang of sadness at those genetic markers Peter shares with his mother. With the computer screen lighting his face, though, Walter discerns a deepness, a tiredness in the eyes, and tries to remember what could have caused such a light pallor.

Peter looks up and catches him. Walter gives a startled, innocent look back.

"What?" asks Peter, his tone a bit more curt than called for.

"Would you at least help me look?" Walter responds.

He gets another sigh, then the clang of a pen being thrown down on the desk. "Sure. Why not? It's not like I'm trying to narrow down the suspect pool or, you know, anything important." He speaks as he moves, brushing past Walter to the few boxes housing his albums. A moment of digging and Peter stands, holding a record up next to him.

"Yes! You found it!"

"You put it in the T's."

"Yes, well, I was trying to organize it thematically - "

"And then forgot halfway through," finishes Peter. "I know." He crosses to the turn table and places it where the last was, carefully stowing the former record in its case and makes a big show of putting it back alphabetically before climbing the steps back up to the computer.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," says Peter's retreating form.

With the proper music now playing, Walter finds the station he was working at and begins the slow, exciting work of separating compounds through the subtraction of a hydrogen bond, assuming, of course, the component he's searching for is organically based. If not, he'll need to use other means, and that requires assistance at some point. There's no easy way to replicate the process undertaken when a molecule enters the human body, and reversing that process is only more complicated.

When, at last, his prepped samples are placed in the mass spectrometer, Walter falls into one of the lab chairs and crosses his arms, craving some Red Vines. His blood sugar must be low, he thinks, and so he makes his way to his candy stash. The supply of sugary snacks are running low, and he finds they are in the same boat, him and his sucrose supply; he taps one of the glass canisters on the lid and offers an apology.

He gets cranky when he doesn't have a properly balanced blood sugar level, though he's never had any tests done to see why - he believes it is simply because sucrose is good for you, as it turns to glucose and feeds his brain. He decides on a sucker, and pops it in his mouth, wondering if there was a way to create a faster mass spectrometer; it would certainly come in handy. He'd like to know what those mosquitoes were carrying, other than blood, of course, and the high levels of tetracycline.

It reminds him of a memory, and it plays out behind his eyelids.

"Peter, do you remember when we went camping by the lake? You had a miserable time. The mosquitoes used to attack you; your mother said it was because you had sweet blood, yet I'm the one with all the sweets!"

"That wasn't me," comes a low reply. Walter shakes his head.

"Of course it was you! Are you telling me I can't remember my own son correctly?"

"Yes," huffs Peter. "I've never had a problem with mosquitoes."

The new information is fascinating. "Hrm. Interesting." He wonders if perhaps they don't have them in the other universe. What if they figured out a way to eradicate them without upsetting the natural balance of the ecosystem? Or maybe their mosquitoes don't require as much blood? Have become unable to transmit death and disease though infected blood? Combating them with antibiotics is so poetic; it must work in _some_ universe.

And he hits a wall. As tall as it is wide and Walter cannot get past it. He has a niggling feeling on his tongue of what's behind it, but there's no way to retrieve it. A locked-off memory, an exit from the highway that's barricaded permanently yet still has a sign telling of where it goes.

He finds solace in the memory. Goes back into it, crawls into the tent, into a mind that didn't have these sorts of problems. Back when it was simple and he actually had time for his son, before he got sick -

A thought occurs to him, strikes like a lightning bolt, and he all but rushes over to the desk where Peter sits. Taking his son completely by surprise, he thrusts a hand out and places the back of it on his forehead.

Peter flinches back and grabs Walter's wrist. "What the hell are you doing?"

"It has occurred to me you have been sick over seven days," he scolds. "This is about the typical duration for the common cold. Are there any symptoms you haven't told me about? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The grip on his wrist loosens, and Peter smiles, that small, shy one that has always made Walter so happy. "No, Walter. I'm fine. Just have a lingering cough."

"You don't look as though you've been resting." His mind makes another leap. "Is that why Olivia chose to leave you here and take Astrid along?"

"What? She wouldn't do that, at least, I don't think she would. If she wanted to know how I'm feeling, she'd ask."

"And yet, here you are. Would you object to me taking some blood?"

"Don't you already have blood to work on?"

Walter gestures to the machine. "That mass spectrometer is entirely too slow."

"Well, they don't make them any faster."

"You seem tired, son. I am only concerned for your health. You can't blame me, considering."

Peter nods. "I know. If I suddenly feel as though I'm dying, you'll be the first to know."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

Walter lets out a breath, and feels more grounded. "Good," he smiles, patting Peter's shoulder. "That's good. Would you like to help me compare the tetracycline levels in our victims' blood to my collection?"

"The ones in the tank?" He pauses to consider this, and Walter reminds himself not to get his hopes up. He's giddy all the same when Peter puts down his pen and stands, and by the time they've reached the tank, Walter is already thinking up drugs to give his son, because if there's one thing Walter knows for certain, it's that Peter's lying.

* * *

><p>She likes Astrid. When Olivia was promoted and told she'd be granted a junior agent as an assistant, she was worried, remembering the stories friends had shared. Certainly she wouldn't have the bad luck of getting one of the more green agents, fresh from college, full of innocence and promise. She needed a realist, someone smart, on-point, and quick to pick up on what needed to be done.<p>

What she got was Astrid, a junior agent who has gone above and beyond anything any of her classmates will probably ever have to deal with.

Still, it feels odd, standing outside the door to the apartment Richard Murphy shared with his wife with Astrid at her side and not Peter or - she hates herself for thinking this - Charlie. _Either one_. She knocks a quick rat-tat-tat of her gloved knuckles on the door and shoves her hands in her pockets, noting that the hallway doesn't absorb heat from the surrounding apartments like her own building does. Beside her, Astrid stands firm, smiling, happy to be out of the lab.

The door pops open after a beat, revealing the thin, manicured form of Jen Murphy. She doesn't even attempt to appear happy; her face is pale even after a half-hearted application of make-up, lips turned into a sad frown. Her eyes flick over Olivia, then Astrid, sizing them up, a hand still on the edge of the door.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Olivia knows, from experience, that she needs to appear sympathetic yet strong, the type of woman a person can open up to with the degree of comfort needed to spill unpleasant details. She tries for a neutral expression, light but grounded.

"We're sorry to bother you. I'm Agent Olivia Dunham and this is Agent Astrid Farnsworth, from the FBI. Can we come in for a few minutes?"

Jen Murphy doesn't speak, just opens the door wider and steps out of the way, revealing a neat and tidy apartment. Olivia walks in front of Astrid, always ready for what may be lurking around the corner, and takes in the modern decor. The living room looks like what Olivia wishes she had time for, all those hand-touches and carefully coordinated accessories. Jen's stepped to the center of the room, and Astrid shuts the door to the apartment with a careful, soft click.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," starts Olivia. No one makes a move to sit, or talk. Jen simply stands near the edge of the living room, shoulders slouched as though it is taking all of her energy to simply stand and breathe. It's the shell shock that hits some after losing a loved one; she's felt its numb sting before and finds it easy to navigate the land now that she's lived it.

"We just have a few questions," Olivia says. "Did your husband ever talk about work with you? Or mention any of his sources?"

Jen shakes her head, "No. Rich didn't like talking about work at home."

"What about when he'd go out?" Astrid jumps in. "Did he ever tell you where he was going?"

The woman shrugs.

Olivia keeps in a sigh. Jen is practically comatose on her feet, a shell of a woman walking around her now empty home. There are touches of warmth everywhere, and while they may not have had a perfect marriage, it's obvious they were still very much happy.

The shrill tone of her cell phone gets some sort of reaction out of Jen, and Olivia is apologetic as she checks the caller ID; the lab. _Perfect_.

"Excuse me just a moment," she says. Astrid nods, and moves towards Jen, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder to lead her toward the kitchen.

"Let's get some tea, okay?" Olivia hears Astrid suggest before slipping out into the hallway to take the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Olivia dear! It's me, Walter Bishop."

She sighs and leans against the wall, running her free hand over her head, smoothing down runaway blond locks. As her head connects with the wall, she closes her eyes, trying to figure out why she feels so _anxious_ about hearing Walter's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Yes. Walter. What can I do for you?" She tries to sound chipper as she stands against the wall in the hallway, the chill from outside leaking in around the window to her left.

"I must insist you do not make a habit of taking Astrid from the lab."

_Naturally_. Walter is more concerned about a change of routine than anything else. She is tempted to bang her head against the wall at least once, but knows the sound would not only echo through the phone, but be heard in the apartment.

"Walter, the only reason I brought Astrid with is because Peter isn't feeling well, even though he'll deny it if you ask him," she explains. Her honesty shocks her, and she wishes she could snatch the words back, grab the string on them and yank them back through the phone.

"Yes, yes, I've noticed that. Unfortunately, my son isn't the best patient when it comes to illness. I blame myself; his mother and I would become very concerned when he got a cold or hurt himself." His voice softens as he finishes, "I'm sure you can understand why."

Yes, she can. Olivia smiles and opens her eyes, realizing she had an ally whom, she knew, would do just about anything to help. She realizes she underestimated Walter, thinking he'd be so wrapped up in his own life and the case at hand, he wouldn't notice anything being amiss.

"Yes, Walter, I understand. Listen, can I call you back? I'm in the middle of something here."

"I was wondering if you would object to me formulating some medication to help combat his symptoms. I'm sure I've figured them out in the last half-hour. I've been observing him very closely."

"Medication?" she breathes in surprise. What goes on in that man's head?

"Oh, nothing hallucinogenic, I assure you! Simply something to help him breathe better."

"And you want my permission."

"I do."

"Walter, Peter's a grown man. If he wants to say something, he will."

"But you don't object?"

The smile is gone from her face, and she finds herself actually contemplating Walter's suggestion, the part of her compelled to help others telling her _something_ has to happen, and soon. She's trusted her own life to Walter's crazy ideas and come out fine.

She has to hang up the phone before hysterical laughter reaches Walter waiting for her answer on the other end.

* * *

><p>There are six kinds of tea in the Murphy's pantry.<p>

Astrid goes for a calming chamomile and notes no teapot on the stove; she looks around the room and spies a water cooler in the corner. There's something to the humming whistle a teapot makes when used on the stove, like an alarm sounding the beginning of a blissful break. She finds a clean mug drying on the counter and fills it from the cooler before placing it on the table in front of Jen Murphy.

"I'm really sorry about your husband," she starts as she takes a seat to Jen's right. "I don't know how I'd feel if someone I loved died."

"We'd only been married a few years," Jen mumbles. Her hands cup the mug, but she doesn't take a sip. "It was his second marriage."

"How did you two meet?"

Jen takes a breath. "We ran into each other at the courthouse downtown. He wasn't looking where he was going, his nose in files, and slammed right into me."

"Ouch!" Astrid reacts. "Not the best, but at least it makes for a great story."

There's a click as the door opens and Olivia sneaks back in the apartment. She takes a seat but doesn't say anything, her mind obviously somewhere else.

"Your husband wasn't a lawyer, though, right?"

"No. He helped out. He uncovered evidence for the Attorney General. He was a private detective before he was hired and loved that he was able to investigate interesting things and not cheating spouses."

"Like what? What was he working on last week?"

There's a little more life to her, now, and she even ventures a sip of her tea. "A law firm downtown was in contact with someone the GA didn't like. They suspected something, I don't know, bad happening?"

"Do you know what law firm?"

"Something Yarles."

Olivia's head snaps up. "Vincentti, Brown, & Yarles?"

* * *

><p>When Olivia walks into the lab around seven that evening, Astrid already heading home after their visit with Jen Murphy and glowing from Olivia's praise, Peter is sitting at the piano playing an upbeat, fast jazz song, laughing as Walter dances a bit in the clear area nearby.<p>

She turns around, walks out the door, and re-enters the lab, thinking she'd unwittingly stumbled into another universe where this type of behavior was normal.

Same scene, except her entrance is noticed.

"Olivia!" calls Walter.

"Liv!" echoes Peter.

The music comes to a smashing stop, Peter slamming his hands down on several keys at once as he lets out another bubbling laugh. She crosses the room, unable to fight the smile that threatens to break her face in half, and leans on the high back of the piano to look down at Peter.

"Hey there, stranger. How's it going?" she asks.

"Great," Peter answers, running a hand up the keys, deepest to highest. "Walter has figured out the mechanism for the cell replication, and I think I found a connection somewhere, but can't exactly remember where."

Olivia turns to Walter. "What did you give him?"

"Just some cherry-flavored cough suppressant. Not to worry, Olivia, this is merely his reaction to such medicines, which may explain why he hasn't taken anything up until now."

Olivia gives Peter a double take, rounds the piano, and places a hand on his shoulder. "Help me get him to the car, will you? I'll give you a ride home."

Getting Peter to the car is a comical affair she's sure will make a great story someday, mostly to Peter's embarrassment, and she laughs more in the fifteen minutes it takes to get out of the Kresge Building and into the car than she has in the past few months.

_Up until about a week ago_, she reminds herself. In the back seat, Peter comments on the world passing by them as Walter prattles on and on about seemingly unimportant things, his thoughts wild with worry as they take the short drive to the house. It's within walking distance, but the temperature has dropped back to what is expected of winter in New England and she knows Walter will only wander off, distracted by something usual yet spectacular.

She drops him in front of the house, making sure he'd be fine alone for the night before driving off for her apartment.

Another short ride. The lack of morning commute is one of the main reasons she's taken to working in the lab's front office, her FBI office seen maybe twice a week, most of the personal touches out of date. Newer pictures are scattered in the lab, propped up by file folders or old frames, taped to the bulletin board missing push pins on the wall.

She's glad she's not on a high floor, even though Peter's simply a happier, drunk piece of himself. Part of her is glad to see this lighter side, but he feels foreign, like a bad translation of a language she understands, the subtitles lying in their simplicity. She imagines this is how he may have grown up had the circumstances been different, and lets herself daydream for a moment as she unlocks her door and leads him inside her apartment.

By midnight, Peter's sleeping in her bed while Olivia sits on her couch, glasses perched on her nose as she goes over printouts she found stacked on the printer back at the lab, those connections made that Peter couldn't remember. Every few minutes she hears him give a hacking cough and shift, and knows he's getting anything but a good night's sleep. She flips a page, skims the contents, and goes back to her own notes.

There's something missing.

It makes perfect sense that a special investigator would be following the paralegal from a law firm if the state was getting ready to make a case against them. She finds nothing odd about the simple fact that Richard Murphy had been tasked to follow Miriam Ellis. Having her drive down to Medfield on a weekend was certainly suspect behavior, and Murphy had followed up on it, just as Olivia would have.

So what's missing?

Another burst of coughing sounds from her bedroom. Olivia takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes, knowing she won't be able to sleep, and leans back on the couch. _What_ could Ellis' law firm be up to that would end with one of their paralegals dying from a mosquito bite? She takes a moment, then leans forward and pushes the files around until she finds the listing of all the law firm's open cases.

_But retained clients aren't necessarily open cases._

Mind whirling, she grabs for more information, hoping a client list was included in the information gathered from their office. Her hands are on the papers that have taken over her coffee table, searching for -

"Olivia?"

She turns at the sound, eyes flicking to her gun on the table near the door before she remembers Peter; Olivia looks over the back of the couch and spies his outline sitting up in her bed, hair wild and askew in a way that makes her want to run her hands through it. Leaving the investigation for a moment, she stands and crosses into the bedroom, folding a leg under her as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"Hey there," she greets softly.

"Ugh, I feel horrible. How did I get here?" His voice is rough and sore. Olivia shrugs a shoulder and smiles. "Oh, no," Peter says, eyes wide, "Walter. He drugged me, didn't he?"

"It was only cough medicine. Who knew it was like giving you six shots?" she grins.

He sighs and flops back against the headboard and rubs his forehead. "What time is it?"

"Nearly one."

"Did you see the bottle or did Walter _tell _you it was cough medicine?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Peter, he's your father. I'm sure he wouldn't do anything to -

"Do _not_ finish that with 'anything to hurt you.' This is _Walter_ we're talking about," he pauses and lets out a few more loud coughs before continuing. "His definition of ethical is a bit skewed."

"Noted." Olivia lets the silence blanket the apartment for a minute, her head tilted to the side as she tries to figure out to navigate this new terrain. "He called me, you know."

"Walter? When?"

"When I was with Murphy's wife. He sounded concerned."

Peter blinks. "Did he really?"

"Yep. Even asked my permission to give you some medicine. It was quite a bizarre conversation, actually."

"Please tell me you did not give him permission," he sighs, shaking his head. "I'm going for full disclosure here, Liv. I feel like shit."

"So all those times you said you were fine," she starts, speaking with her hands; they throw odd shadows over his face. "You were what?"

"Lying my ass off?"

"Well, that would be a tragedy right there, as I'm partial to you keeping it where it is." Olivia grins wider and leans forward until her face is hovering inches above his. She loves how his eyes seem to shine when focused on her lips, how he lets her be a tease most of the time.

"I'll get you sick," he mumbles. She watches his mouth form the words, lip-reading instead of simply hearing him speak, and kisses him.

"I'll chance it," replies Olivia. Her head tilts down until her forehead's resting on his; his skin is warm against hers, and at first, she attributes it to the different temperatures between the rooms, or her own proclivity for running cold. As it radiates, she frowns and sits up, putting the back of her hand against his forehead.

Peter squirms under her touch, shifting up to sit up straight against the head of the bed, his eyes straight on her and oddly shadowed. Closed. Olivia gives herself another second before taking a deep breath and leaning back to face him.

"Listen, you don't have to take care of me or anything; I can just - "

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "Nope. We're not doing that. If this," - she motions between them with her hand - "is going to work, you're going to have to stop keeping things from me."

"Olivia, I wasn't keeping anything from you, I just don't do well with," he trails off with a little shake of his head. "You know what? I trust you." He looks at her, expecting her to say something. When she doesn't, he shrugs. "What?"

For her part, Olivia's managed to keep herself from smiling at his admission. She knows how hard it is to let someone in after years of keeping yourself guarded. And while she, a few years ago, was able to - and subsequently had her heart broken and mended within a four month time period - Olivia seriously doubts Peter's had a real relationship in years.

"Does this mean I can go get some Ibuprofen without you dashing out the door while I'm in the bathroom?" she asks instead.

"Yes. I promise to not run out on you. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't make it two steps," he answers.

Olivia laughs, just a short burst of amusement, as she stands and starts for the bathroom. "Good thing you're not alone, then, huh."

She digs through her medicine cabinet, finds the bottle of painkillers she has in there, and shakes a few of the brown pills into her hand. Grabs a cup from next to the sink and fills it with a bit of water from the tap, then shuts the light off as she returns to the bedroom. Peter's sitting up on the edge of the bed, hands grasping the edge of the mattress, head bowed. When she approaches, he turns to look up at her, smiling.

"Here," she instructs. "And I promise, they're exactly what I said they are. I even checked the bottle."

He dutifully swallows and drinks the water, making a face as it hits his stomach. "Thanks."

Olivia bends down and kisses his forehead.

* * *

><p><em>She's standing in a field of white lilies, snow falling softly to the ground, and yet...yet she isn't cold. There's a rustling along <em>_the tree line__, and a shadow of a person begins to take shape just as a shrill ringing begins to sound, reverberating throughout the field._

_It sounds again._

And again.

Groaning, Olivia Dunham rolls over and slaps a hand onto her nightstand, blinding searching out her cell phone. Her fingers brush over her gun, all cold, sharp angles, before grasping her phone. Eyes still closed, she answers.

"It's Broyles," her boss announces. "I'd say I'm sorry to wake you this early, Agent Dunham, but I was just woken myself by Harvard campus security."

"The lab?" she asks, beginning to wake up.

"There's been a break-in. I've already requested the security tapes; hopefully the cameras we added last year will be more helpful in this case."

With a jolt, she remembers the holes in their security, those grainy black and white images that did little to reveal who'd broken in and taken Peter. She opens her eyes and rolls back over, her body fitting easily, sheets still warm. It'd be easy to hang up the phone and fall back asleep, especially after it took so long to initially wind down. A break-in at the lab means they've hit a nerve, have gotten close enough to scare their potential suspects, and Olivia thrives when the clock begins to count down.

She hangs up and clutches the phone in her hand as she wraps herself around Peter's back, nose fitting into where his neck meets his shoulder, and indulges for a few moments. He continues to sleep, helped along by medicine - _finally!_ - and exhaustion.

Olivia dresses in the dark, writes a note, and readies herself for the chill of winter at five am.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, I know. I didn't post yesterday. But I was feeling that maybe I'd overloaded you guys with fic because of the extra chapter post and that one-shot that shot straight out of my brain and onto the (digital) page. Anyway, here it is. I really like this one, too, because there's a huge chunk devoted to more things going on with Peter they should have addressed in the show.

Which is why I like thinking of this as a "missing episode."

I shall run off, now.

XO, kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

Broyles doesn't look any happier to be at the lab than she does.

He's put together, probably wearing yesterday's suit; there are wrinkles already formed from the day before. His long overcoat has a brushing of snow on the shoulders, a few still flakes melted into the wool. Olivia takes off her hat as she hops down the three steps to the main floor and takes a moment to survey the damage.

There wasn't a struggle this time. Two long tables, previously holding the bodies of their victims, are parked at odd angles at the top of the ramp across the room, empty. Papers have been searched through, many tossed to the floor, deemed unimportant. Chairs have been thrown over, equipment broken. It's as if the lab was a snow-globe and someone turned it upside down and shook it while everyone slept.

They've come onto her turf, and she doesn't like it. "Have the security tapes arrived?"

"I'm expecting them any minute," he replies, tone suggesting they're already late. "I've called Agent Farnsworth, asked her to wake Dr. Bishop. If anyone can tell us what's been taken, it's them."

"Why would they take the bodies?" Olivia says, mostly to herself. "If we got too close, if we spooked them, I could understand destroying evidence, or trying to find out what we know. But bodies are big, heavy, and need refrigeration. They're not easy to transport or dispose of." She pauses, looking over the lab again. "So, why take them at all?"

"Like you said, to destroy evidence. Maybe they felt the bodies contained some clue that would lead us to them?" Broyles supplied.

"It doesn't track. Unless," - and this thought comes to her from right-field - "Unless they didn't want to destroy evidence, but examine it."

"You're saying whoever's behind this wanted to examine the bodies?"

Olivia finds it just as sickening, but nods. She's seen the worst aspects of human nature in this job, the lengths people will go to in order to prove their theory. There's a line most people don't cross, and she'd be remiss if she didn't recognize that Walter crossed it long ago. She's hoping for some insight from him, a nugget of truth she can run with.

"Hopefully Walter can help us figure out what," she finally says. "Can we get some agents down here to sweep for prints?"

"Already on the way."

"Good." She sighs and taps her fingers against her cheek, hand over her mouth, thinking for a moment. "There was a guy, when we went to the diner this morning."

"Watching you?"

She nods. "He could have followed us back."

"Really, Agent Dunham, I find it hard to believe you would allow someone to follow you without noticing."

"I don't know. I don't think anyone did. But I can't see any other way he could have connected us to the lab."

The doors click open before Broyles can respond, giving Olivia a short reprieve from his scorching gaze. She doesn't know when it happened, exactly, but she's come to see Broyles as someone she wants to impress, and her sloppy casework could have cost them their only leads.

Astrid appears, as always, put-together. She's polished where everyone else is rumpled, t-shirt clean and smooth under her jacket. Beside her, Walter's all wrinkled bits and mis-matched clothing, but Olivia can't figure if that's because he was woken in the middle of the night or still awake, dressed hastily after his nightly bath. He frowns as he sees his lab, but more than that, notes the hole at her side.

"Olivia, good morning," he says, voice soft. "I hope you're well."

"Morning, Walter," she smiles. "We're wondering if you can help us figure out what may have been taken?"

He nods, switching his attention to the lab, walking to various areas, mourning the loss of a piece of equipment, hands cradling broken bits of a microscope. Glass crunches under his feet, slides and screens and dishes, as he moves around. Astrid goes to the computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searches for missing or accessed digital data, and in the face of them, their movements, Olivia feels like she's humming in place.

"Oh, my candies!" exclaims Walter from out of sight. Olivia steps carefully around papers and debris on the ground to see the glass jars have been smashed on the floor, their sugary contents scattered around. Walter sees her and turns up, asking, "Do you suppose the ten-second rule may apply here?"

"No," she says, "We'll get you more."

"You and Peter?"

Olivia nods. "Yup. Later. He's still sleeping."

"Oh, good," he sighs, nodding. "I was worried, Olivia, but knew you'd take care of him."

She doesn't really know what to say, other than she's touched at his blind trust in her, and thinks the whole circle's complete - she's trusted him since the day they met, more out of desperation than anything - and a faint blush touches her cheeks.

"There's no need to blush, dear," he smiles at her. There's a connection, there, for a second, before his eye is caught by something else, another malady of the crime, and he crosses the lab to investigate. The air feels cooler all around her as soon as he leaves, and she has a sudden urge to call Peter and wake him.

"Olivia?" calls Astrid. She waves Olivia over, frowning at the screen in front of her. "Whoever broke-in was able to gain access to the hard-drive. Many of the files pertaining to our current case have been accessed, but so have a few other directories."

"Agent Broyles?" another voice sounds. Olivia and Astrid look up to see an agent jog into the lab, a DVD case in hand. Broyles takes it and hands it off to Astrid, who pops it in the computer.

The new angles are much better than before, the picture improved. They were foolish to think they were safe, here, in the university's basement, far from sight. All three agents watch a man approach, dark ball-cap pulled down over his face, waiting for the moment he slips up and reveals himself, even for a _second_.

Then the man turns a corner and Olivia flashes back to the diner. "That's him," she says, pointing at the screen. "That's the man that was watching us in Medfield."

* * *

><p>Astrid's pushing a large broom across the floor, paper and glass and random bits of equipment - broken plastic, lenses, bits of petri dishes - when Peter slowly walks through the doors. He stops short at the railing, hands gripping it, eyes wide at the chaos before he furrows his brow, anger overtaking surprise.<p>

"Hey, Astrid, what happened?" he calls from his perch. It takes a moment for him to release the railing, head spinning when he moves, but he's traversed a Middle East city with a concussion, so getting to the main floor of the lab is _nothing_.

Or so he tells himself.

Astrid looks up at his approach, starts to smile, but lets it fall. "The lab was broken in to last night," she explains, leaning on the broom handle. "Both our victims are gone, and the computer's been combed through. Olivia said the man was someone you guys ran into in Medfield?"

"What?"

"She's back at the Federal Building trying to get background on him."

Peter's thoughts are swimming in his head, dodging him each time he tries to grasp one, put together the puzzle. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose; there's a bit of congestion lingering, forcing him to open his mouth. Maybe he should go back to the apartment and crawl into bed. The idea is tempting, but he's never been able to leave a puzzle unsolved.

"Are you okay here?" he asks. _Can I go?_

"Go. I doubt you'd be much help around here," she says. He can tell she's tired and definitely never thought she'd be spending her time cleaning up a lab when she first started at Quantico, and he feels guilty over how many times she's left to pick up where he left off.

The least he can do is acknowledge that, but he doesn't know how.

He finds the station wagon in the lot, left overnight, and it takes way too much energy to brush the night's snow from the windows; the act leaves him winded, and Peter simply sits in the car, head tilted back against the headrest, as the engine blows hot air onto his face. Everything feels odd, as though he's walking through a dream, a curtain he just can't push through. Every limb feels heavy, and sleep is so close, he can run his fingers along the edge of it, just close enough that it can pull him down easily.

A horn honks somewhere in the parking lot, jolting him awake. Peter rubs his eyes and blinks, intentionally, trying to wake himself up.

By the time he enters the lobby of Boston's Federal Building, he's downed half the large coffee he's carrying. He finds Olivia in her office up on the fifth floor, glasses perched on her nose, a pile of papers on her desk. He forgoes knocking, wanting nothing more than to sit down; he walks in, falls into one of the chairs facing her desk, and takes a long drink of his coffee.

"Hey you," Olivia says with a smile. "I thought you'd still be asleep."

"Your alarm went off," he answers, putting the cup on the edge of her desk. "I may have overreacted when it did."

"You killed my alarm clock?" Olivia raises an eyebrow, and then motions to his coffee, tilting her head. "How much of that have you had already?"

Peter shrugs. "Half?"

She seems to be okay with that, and snatches it from the edge of the desk, taking off the lid before downing a few gulps herself. Peter waits for the wince, and when he sees it, cracks a smile.

"How can you drink it like this?" she asks, eyes scrunched closed.

"What, without a cup of sugar in there? C'mon, Olivia, I thought you were tough."

Olivia smirks and opens one of her desk drawers, and he's pretty sure he knows what she's up to before the white packets make it into sight. "Good thing I'm prepared."

"Okay, don't you have coffee _here_?" he groans.

"This is better," she states plainly, shaking the packet between her fingers. He sighs, resigned to the sweet taste, that is, if he ever gets his drink back, and runs a hand over his face, trying to wake up a little more.

"Let's forget the fact that you ditched me this morning," he says with a wave of his hand, "or that the lab was apparently broken-into and no one told me."

"I didn't ditch you," Olivia objects, "I left a note!"

"I think this falls into one of those situations where a note just doesn't cut it," he points out. It's getting hard to keep up a conversation, all the words jumbling together in his head. Aware of all the sugar Olivia added to the coffee, he motions for her to give him the cup. Maybe another few hits of caffeine can help perk him up.

She hands over the cup; he replaces the lid before taking a drink, and she rolls her eyes, the motion oddly magnified behind her reading glasses. The coffee is lukewarm by now, but soothing nonetheless, his throat sore and raw from a week of coughing. He takes a drink anyway, using the pause to figure out how to translate how he's feeling into words Olivia can understand, pull the abstract into the real. He likes words, most of the time, twisting phrases to suit his needs, and hates how muddled his head feels.

He sighs, the cup balanced on his knee. "I just wish you would have woken me up so I had a choice."

"I thought it would be best to let you sleep," she replies, posture turning defensive. "But maybe that was a mistake?"

"No, I get that you're looking out for me, and it's touching, it really is. I just," and here, his words fail him. He is trying to be comfortable showing weakness in front of her, intentionally, and failing miserably. He rubs his forehead and tries to breathe normally.

Olivia tosses her glasses on the desk and leans forward, elbows balanced atop top secret reports edged in slashed red and white. "Is there something bothering you, Peter? Because I thought we already worked through this last night. I understand that you're not used to people caring - "

"I need to be in control," he blurts out, cutting her off. "Wait. Let me explain," he adds at her quizzical expression. "With everything that's happening, I feel like I'm not in control of my life anymore. And for me, it's an odd sensation. You're talking about a guy who took control of every situation he got stuck in since, well, I was nineteen. So I'm trying to be in charge of the little things, wherever I can. Call it a crutch or a mechanism of whatever you'd like; I see that machine and what's supposed to happen to me, and I," - he shakes his head, images popping up in his mind, stills of recent nightmares.

"You're afraid of what could happen," she sums up.

He gives her a sideways smile, sardonic and sad. "You tell me how I'm supposed to deal with it."

"You know you can talk to me, anytime."

"Thanks. I appreciate the offer. But if it's just the same to you, I don't want to unload my problems onto you when you've got so much to deal with already."

"Peter..."

He holds up his hands, palms out. Blurting out the truth felt good; even if he wishes he could snatch the words back, pluck them from the air. His shoulders feel lighter, just a bit, a weight lifted, and he buys, for a moment, the validity of all those late-night motivational speakers who say being honest is the path of least resistance.

Except he hasn't been honest, totally honest, with anyone in twelve years. Even himself.

"Olivia, do you really want to know everything? How I'm feeling about all this?" And he hopes she takes it sarcastically, hopes she brushes it off and leaves it out there, an offer not taken yet not quite refused.

"In a word? Yes."

Peter almost winces at her answer, foggy mind trying to come up with a way to talk himself out of this conversation, get back to the task at hand, the case they're so close to solving. He wishes he would have arrived at the lab to find everything normal so he could curl up on the couch in the back office and go back to sleep, there just in case something came up.

And yet part of him wants her to ask him a question so he can unload, just a little bit, on her. Punish her with the depth of his emotions. There are boundaries, he knows, lines he can't cross, not yet. He may trust Olivia with his life, but is still afraid she'll find fault with his actions and they'll be back where they were months ago, in that overgrown backyard with its rusting metal furniture.

And he used to be so _good_ at dishing out payback.

He can control this situation, though. Turns over his wrist and glances at his watch, vision too blurry to read out the time, everything too small. "Okay, one question."

"One," she repeats. "Full disclosure."

"As time allows," he smiles.

Olivia nods and leans back in her chair, thinking. For a second, Peter panics, his secret too precious, too big, to occupy the same space as them. Schools his features and takes another sip of the coffee, trying not to wince as he tastes the sugar she's added. But then, isn't that the point? Take the conman and turn him into an honest guy?

"Okay. I've got one," she says with a smile. He raises his eyebrows, awaiting her question. "What do you dream about every night?"

Whatever he thought she was going to ask, it wasn't that. "What?"

"I'm a light sleeper, Peter."

And here he never thought his dreams ever escaped his head. Walter never said anything about Peter talking or moving in his sleep; then again, Walter was usually so wrapped up in his own methods of falling asleep, he probably didn't notice much else. The list of people who've observed him sleep, on any sort of long basis, is short, so short, in fact, he has to think a moment to add someone else.

"Why, do I talk or something?" he volleys back.

Olivia doesn't even have to say anything; he can read in her eyes what his father told him long ago - she can see right through his avoidance tactic and doesn't buy it.

"Okay," he gives in. "My mantra isn't working, by the way. I think I grew out of it."

"I'm not sure that's the way it works."

"I see Walternate," he admits. "And I'm in the machine. And I know the thing says my eyes spout fire, but I can still see, and the thing doesn't work how we think it should; everything gets destroyed, and I can see every single second of it." He punctuates the last few words, letting them hang in the air, harsh, sharp, and looming. There's more, loads more, but just a few sentences has him re-living his latest one, two nights ago, when he woke up in a cold sweat and retreated into three beers.

He leans back and crosses his arms, the empty coffee cup dangling, empty, from the fingers of his left hand. Behind his eyes, he sees fire and metal, feels its cold grip around his heart, and _damn_, it's all so _heavy_.

Olivia's arm is around his shoulders, cupping his right arm, and she pulls him to her, the pair sharing an awkward, sideways hug.

* * *

><p>Olivia's in the driver's seat, hands clutching the faux leather of the steering wheel with gloved hands. Winter has a strong hold on Boston, an icy grip that lasts far longer than the calendar allows; she'll be in a heavy coat straight on till April, yearning for the first day above 45 degrees.<p>

A far cry from the military bases located in warmer climates.

Her blood, already contaminated by a miracle of questionable science, has thickened in the years since her assignment to the Boston field office, and she makes do, survives the cold. It's her only play in life, other than emotion-filled offense.

"Here's what I don't get," she muses aloud. "The work in the lab was perfect - no fingerprints or trace evidence. Obviously a pro. So why does he get caught by the camera coming into the lab?"

Beside her, Peter gives her a slanted look; she catches it in the fraction of a second she takes her eyes off the road. He's looking better thanks to the office's supply of Day-Quil and aspirin.

"Only reason I can think of is that he wanted to," he answers. "There's no way he missed the cameras."

There's a wealth of past knowledge under his words, the stark opposite of her training and experience. She wants to hear those stories, learn the places he's been, the people he's met, and knows he'll tell the minute she becomes a girl with a badge and not the other way around.

"How?" she ventures, curious as to what she's missed.

"The lenses reflect the light at night," he explains. "You can catch them if you hit the right angles."

She raises an eyebrow, imagining him wandering in the low, past-hours light of the building's hallways, searching for shining stars above.


	7. Chapter 7

Hola!

I put off posting this as incentive for a friend to finish a big paper for school, knowing she wouldn't have any self-control if the new chapter was out there, somewhere, on the internet. Sorry for the delay! But that means you won't have to wait long for the next chapter, which, once you finish this one, well - you'll probably think a day's too long to wait. At least I would! *laughs*

Enjoy! And leave me some love, please!

XO, kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

Astrid hangs up the phone and slips it back into her pocket before crossing the lab to where Walter is reading over a print-out for the fourth time.

"That was Olivia," she announces, leaning against the table near him. "They've identified the man who broke in, and are on their way to his house."

Walter gives a noncommittal nod. He's frowning, fingers skimming the page, and shakes his head as he reaches the bottom.

"Walter?" asks Astrid. She puts a hand on his shoulder and tries reading the page in his hands. "What is it?'

"This doesn't make any sense," he says after a moment, placing the paper on a nearby table. "It's as if he bonded the replication cells to the tetracycline itself."

"What, like they're working together?" she prompts. There's a desert between her linguistics and computer skills and his vast chemical knowledge, a divide she's tried to breach with heavy books from the university's library. In moments like these, she feels it more than ever, and does what she can to at least help him along.

"Perhaps," he mutters. Then looks up at her, sad, and frustrated. "Do we have any Red Vines? I could use some cinnamon goodness."

Her mind goes to the jars of candy, smashed on the other side of the room, trails of sugar swept across the concrete floor.

"Sure, Walter. Will you be okay for a few minutes? I think they started carrying them in the bookstore."

"Finally! I've been suggesting a larger sweets stock since 1975."

* * *

><p>There's a moment, however elusive, just before the wood splinters around a lock, when Olivia Dunham can feel adrenaline surge through her veins and hit her heart, that has her bouncing on the balls of her feet and smiling in the face of danger. Sometimes, she wishes she could capture those last few seconds before she gives the order to move, bottle it up to use when feeling less than confident. What color would it be, that cloud floating inside a glass jar, raw energy crackling in a confined environment?<p>

The old wood of Paul Carlile's house gives, just a bit, as she leans against it, the door to her left. Five agents in blue windbreakers, the letters FBI spelled out in tall, yellow capitals, stand at various points around her, guns drawn, at the ready. All that remains is that small head-tilt, the fractional movement that brings an event horizon, chaos.

She nods.

There's the crack of wood. Agents swarm in through the door like bees disturbed by a stick hitting the hive, guns held in front of them; trigger fingers flush against the side of their government-issue Glocks. Olivia's voice bounces around with theirs, echoes of protocol as she goes room-by-room, checking for the townhouse's lone occupant.

Nothing.

When the last call of clear reaches her ears, Olivia lets her arms fall to her sides, right hand quick to holster her weapon, and she shucks the windbreaker from over her winter coat, letting it land in a kitchen chair. There's always a chance the occupant won't be home - most of the time, they're keen to their status as a person of interest, have done something to garner attention, and make a run for it. She never really expects to find them, and as she waits for the agents to secure the parameter, she runs a hand over her hair, pulled into a loose ponytail, and begins to build a profile through what she can see.

That's where the real clues lay.

The furnishings are spartan but coordinated. Metal and wood; she recognizes a few from the IKEA catalogue sitting on her kitchen counter. There's a feel to the place that the man truly lives here and isn't just using it as a base of operations, that, in some kind of desperation, he got himself mixed up with the sort of people she makes a job of chasing.

"No luck, huh?" A hand lands on her shoulder at the same time the line's delivered, and her body, still pumped full of adrenaline, locks into fight or flight; she grabs the hand and brings the owner around to face her, twisting the wrist clutched in her hand -

"Whoah! Olivia, calm down!" Peter, eyes wide, tries to free his arm itself from her grip.

She releases him, sheepish. "Sorry. I should have warned you not to come up on me in these situations," she says. It was never an issue before, when they were friends and not a couple experiencing those first jitters of a new relationship, when your fingers are dying to memorize every inch of your new lover like a scanner beaming everything right into your mind.

"Yeah, I think I've learned that one." He's rubbing his wrist with his free hand, a circular motion that would give most kids Indian burns back in elementary school; she watches his fingers go round and round, the skin peeking through red with imprints of her fingers. "Any luck at finding this guy?"

Olivia's head snaps up, eyes meeting his, that shade of blue that seems to shift and change depending on the moment, light coming in through large windows, the black of his pea coat. He frowns, hands dropping to his sides, and leans forward just a little bit.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"Yeah. Yeah. Carlile isn't here, but I thought we could search his things, see if we dig up any clues?"

"Sure," he smiles, nodding - there's no chaos at the end of his nod, no rush. "I'll check out the living room."

He walks away, a figure in black, fingertips still in those leather gloves he bought on the first day Boston saw snow, three years ago, when his wardrobe consisted of desert attire all shoved in a single duffel bag. She watches him for a moment, a feeling of nostalgia amid an FBI search.

There's a bit of mail on the bar-level counter in the kitchen. Bills and notices, a few fliers addressed to the current resident. There are two mugs in the sink, rinsed, not washed. Drawers reveal a small set of silverware, take-out menus, and assorted junk. The refrigerator is white, clean, and empty.

Before she knows it, her search circuit has taken her out past the living room, near the shelves Peter's searching. He grabs a book and looks at it, head cocked to the side.

"You ever think about what people would figure out about you based on the books you have?" he asks, re-shelving the book, sliding it back into the gap he created.

"No, I can't say that I have."

He hums and moves on. She knows his mind is still running, going through what's on his bookcase, cataloging all the textbooks he's grabbed from the college bookstore or Markham. Does he have a point? Can she be the sum of what she reads? She wants to think she can't be, that she's more complex than that, but then what are they doing here?

There's a red pen sitting on the desk, almost staged, unnatural in it's placement. She picks it up and reads the white writing along the side. _Synergy Medical Works_. There's a phone number under it, an 888 toll free affair that is probably automated on the other end. Olivia clicks it a few times, _click-click, click, click-click_, like she's arming one of Q's inventions for James Bond, when Peter encloses her hand in his, stopping the movement.

"Sorry," he says, however lightly, "pet peeve. Walter does it all the time. Drives me insane."

She relinquishes the pen, holding it in her freed, open palm, an offering. He plucks it from her, goes to put it back on the desk, and then stops.

"Olivia, where was this?"

She points. "It was sitting on the desk."

"In plain sight, huh," he mutters. Those cogs are moving, gears churning. "I think this guy's leaving us breadcrumbs."

* * *

><p>The line at the bookstore was long, longer than usual, and Astrid says a silent prayer, eyes closed, head tilted up, that the lab is still in one piece when she gets there. Red Vines clutched in her hands, she pushes into the lab to find it...<p>

...empty?

Dropping the licorice on a table, plastic rustling as it hits the tabletop, Astrid begins a grid search of the lab space, hitting all the places Walter may find interesting or distracting - music, chemicals, Gene. The last is where she finds him, sitting on the little stool used for milking, except he's simply sitting there, right hand petting the cow as he rambles, thinking. She smiles - thanks God or whomever has taken on the task of looking over their odd little family - and backtracks a bit to retrieve the candy.

"Oh, Astrid, would you like some milk?" Walter calls over his shoulder. "I, I was thinking some would help me think, but then got distracted by this pattern on the wall, here. Have you seen it? Absolutely marvelous!"

"Yes, Walter. It's been there since we got here," responds Astrid. She leans against one of the support pillars, one hand holding the Red Vine within reach. Walter smiles up at her, all innocent and childlike, and begins gnawing at a piece of licorice. Her eyes rise to the water stains on the old, yellowed paint of the cinder block wall, blotches in rust and brown, a watercolor relief for Gene.

"Has it? Hrmm."

There are so many things she could be doing right now, many she _should_ be, and yet Astrid remains where she stands, eyes on the golden hay on the bottom of Gene's pen, those flattened stalks replaced every week by the owner of a local farm who no longer finds any of this odd. He asks about the milk, if it glows green, and Astrid always laughs. Green milk.

"Huh," she breathes, fingers toying with the opened end of the Red Vines package.

"What, my dear?" asks Walter.

"I was just thinking about my sister. When she was sick last year, and on that antibiotic, she had this craving for ice cream but couldn't have any. I almost had to wrestle it away from her."

Walter's head rises, movements no longer fluid, but tight, controlled. Running on auto-pilot as his mind goes elsewhere. Suddenly, he shoots up from the stool and claps his hands, smile almost splitting his face, eyes crinkling with joy. It is hard, in these moments, to remember all he's done, the darker past that foreshadows the present, the future clouded by his singular act. Astrid forgot, at least for awhile, and now constantly has to remind herself if only to maintain perspective.

But his joy is contagious, especially when he grips her shoulders and nearly pulls her into a hug.

"Genius! Yes, absolute genius!"

He spin off, a hurricane bursting through the lab, an uncontrollable wind that spreads destruction, except this one's rewired it's core, a reformed criminal helping solve crime. Astrid turns so as to watch him, tapping the Red Vine box against her leg, and then moves to follow him, curious.

"The reason your sister could not have the ice cream is that the calcium ion _negates_ the effects of tetracycline! Yes!" He's pulling out equipment faster than Astrid would like, having already swept broken glass once today. There's a limited supply left intact, and Walter moves with precision as he sets up what he'll need.

"So dairy makes the antibiotic not work?" she asks from his side.

"What? Oh, yes," he says, turning to her. "You see, when you drink milk or ingest dairy while on tetracycline, the medicine binds to the calcium ion, which, as you know, is absorbed by the bones. When this happens, the tetracycline is not absorbed into the blood where it can do it's work!"

"Wait, we should call Olivia, let her know - "

He continues on as if she hasn't spoken.

"If someone was bitten by this mosquito and drank milk, the molecule would be absorbed into the bones where it would become dormant. These people," - he motions to the two small samples that survived the break in - "did not have milk. I am fairly certain they did not. So the instructions sent through the mosquito's bite stayed in the bloodstream, where they infected all the body's systems, causing, well..." He motions with his hands, a 'V' in the sky. "Kaboom! Uninhibited cell growth!"

Astrid raises her eyebrows, clearly not as amused as Walter at the prospect of cell growth run amok in a human body.

* * *

><p>"Okay, fill me in."<p>

Peter blinks quickly and flexes his jaw, trying to pop his ears of all the mucus left-over from his cold that just doesn't seem to want to leave. That says nothing of his head, which, in the last half-hour, has decided to entertain a jazz quartet in time with the pounding of an angry headache. The music sounds dusty and old, fragmented memories from one of his favorite bars down in New Orleans he hasn't seen for at least six years. Back then, he found the haunted, sad melodies comforting.

"I found them yesterday when I was researching invoices for the type of mosquito that bit both Miriam Ellis and Richard Murphy. More people order them than you'd think," he adds, though Olivia's less amused than him. "Anyway, I cross-referenced that with any labs doing medical research or vector control."

"And Synergy was on that list."

"One of three. It's no coincidence we found that pen in Carlile's house. I'd go so far as to say Carlile _wants_ us to find whoever he's working with."

"Yeah, but _why_?"

Peter shrugs. "Everyone has a line they won't cross. Maybe he hit his."

"Found out what his partner was doing?"

"Something like that."

Outside the window, the landscape has turned crystalline, melted snow now frozen solid into ice, a thick, crunchy top layer that protects the snow underneath. Peter frowns, catching his reflection in the glass; there's a memory there, something fuzzy and undefined, just outside his reach. He thinks of ice and snow and breaking through, of shouts from a forest he can't see.

And then the snow is back, his breath fogging the window.

For the first time since waking up, Peter questions his decision to leave the comfort and warmth of Olivia's apartment, hell, her _bed_, because the jazz musicians have amped up their game and he can barely look out the window without wincing. While wearing sunglasses.

He's thankful for their cover, and closes his eyes.

Except those nightmares are waiting before he even has the chance to drift off, their imagery bright and red and _piercing_.

Armed with a photo of Carlile, a bland, straight shot pulled from the DMV, Olivia breezes past the receptionist in the front lobby _Synergy Medical Works_, all glass surfaces and modern chrome, her badge front and ready to quell any opposition. The woman follows behind, heels clicking in quick repetition as she attempts to keep up with them, steps shortened by uncomfortable shoes.

"Ma'am, _please_!" she calls, voice bouncing off smooth, white walls. "You can't just walk in! There are controlled experiments going on!"

Olivia turns on her heels so fast, the woman almost slams right into her. Peter recognizes the look in her eyes, the emotion behind them; she's so _sure_ of who's behind it all and wants to stop it all before more people die. He leans against the wall, the quick pace making him lightheaded, and finds the hallway is swirling around him, the white walls and floor robbing him of a frame of reference.

"Do you recognize this man?" demands Olivia. The woman takes a step back as if physically struck by Olivia's sharp tone, and nods.

"Mr. – Mr. Carlile. He's a contract employee, works with Dr. Underhil. I have sign-in records if you need them."

Olivia's smile at the sudden assistance is wane and stretched, almost _sarcastic_, if that were possible. "Thank you. Is Dr. Underhil here at the moment?"

The woman nods again, timid. "I'll take you to his lab."

"Good."

Peter admires this about Olivia, her drive, her quest for justice, how much she can feel for others. Caring about anyone other than himself is a difficult concept for Peter to grasp, him being so out of practice and all. He's made strides, sure, can count on one hand the people he'd risk himself for, but Olivia seems to feel for the world.

He trails behind the two women, a hand brushing the wall like fingers skimming water, finding the hallway's at a twenty-degree tilt. Even his words have escaped him; he's a fish out of water mouthing Olivia's name, _knowing_ something is about to go horribly wrong.

She's miles ahead in a never-ending hallway. He stops, shakes his head to clear it, and winces at how loud his coughs echo around him.

* * *

><p>Broyles is going to be pissed about this move, but there's something about the breadcrumbs that has her on high-alert.<p>

Underhil's lab is on the back side of the building, a small, bright cube a fourth of the size of Walter's affair in the Kresge Building. The receptionist opens the door with the swipe of a keycard, expression sheepish as she reveals her level of access, and Olivia knows she needs some back-up because this woman isn't adding up.

Everything is moving in hyper-reality, colors vivid as she feels a second jolt of adrenaline rush through her body when the door swings open. There's a man standing on the other side; he turns his head, just a little glance over his shoulder, and takes off at a dead run through another door on the other side of the room.

Olivia jumps after him, pulling her gun from her hip, the metal a comfortable memory in her hand. The door swings closed after Underhil - she pushes it open with a hand, lets it slam into the wall behind it, giving the room little consideration as she shoots after Underhil.

He emerges into another white hallway, and Olivia has to push off the wall to make the turn, breaking out at a flat run, a battle of endurance through the back hallway to a fire-exit door. Underhil pushes through it - the alarm buzzes, loud, whooping, as Olivia follows him out into the sunlight of mid-day winter.

* * *

><p>As soon as the door opens, the receptionist takes two steps back and starts back down the hall towards Peter. He reacts, more muscle memory than concentrated intention, suddenly thinking of the narrow alleyways of India, getting hit in the head by the butt of a gun and the nausea rolling through him as he raced after his mark. He made it, too, collapsing to throw up the moment after knocking the guy out with a left hook.<p>

To anyone observing, Peter Bishop appears drunk, at least for the first few steps until the adrenaline kicks in - he shoots down the hall after the receptionist. She kicks off her shoes, the heels flying back towards him; he swerves to avoid them, pushing himself even as his lungs begin to burn and his head is swimming.

They're back in the shining lobby, where she dives behind the desk and grabs her purse in the time it takes Peter to clear into the open space, and is off running for the front door. Peter runs around, meeting up with her at the doors, and pushes a man entering into her, knocking both to the ground.

"What the _hell_?" the man exclaims. Peter ignores him; grabs the receptionist by the arm and snarls in her face:

"Don't go anywhere, sweetheart."

He coughs, once, twice, and feels like his lungs are about to burst. It'd be easy to sit the rest of this one out, keep a hold on the woman, and say he was making sure she stayed in custody. Not a cop-out, but hanging back nonetheless.

The air is dense. He steps out the front door, mind whirling, trying to catch some fresh air. Everything's in a tunnel, his vision clouded. Peter closes his eyes, tries to re-center himself, but without breath, he can't seem to _focus_. He huffs, tries to breathe, and gets only coughs. Wet, deep coughs and he's falling, unable to keep his balance. Damnit, he can't _breathe_!

Peter feels the icy chill of snow-covered asphalt, a kick in his side, and rolls, from the inertia, onto his back, where deep grey clouds fade, slowly, to black.

* * *

><p>It all happens in slow-motion. This is how:<p>

Olivia bursts from the building, sunlight blinding as her eyes adjust. Her gun swings with her arm as she pushes for extra speed. There are too many variables out here, too many places for him to go, to hide. She can't corner him out here.

They round the edge of the building, the entrance now in view, parking lot to their left, glass lobby to the right. She's tracking Underhil as he crosses the lot, only she sees something else, spies, from the corner of her eye, the dependable figure of Peter. And she full expects him to run from the door and tackle Underhil, their paths close to converging.

Underhil runs further. Peter walks out - Olivia wants to shout his name, warn him, but has no breath to spare, she's running so fast - and begins to cough; then she sees him fall.

There's no crack of gunfire. No violence of any kind. Nothing Pattern-related. Simply Peter, coughing, falling.

Her focus switches from the doctor to Peter, her feet bringing her closer to him. Except Underhil can't avoid him, not in time, and he trips over Peter's prone form, tumbling to the ground beside him.

But it gives Olivia the break she needs. In three seconds, she's standing over Peter, gun drawn on Underhil, who has a knee under him. He freezes, half-way to standing up, and stares, eyes wide, brown and black and sharp.

"Freeze!" she shouts. It's easy for her to drop to one knee, to reach forward and press her fingers to the side of Peter's neck; it's difficult to move the scarf to the side, to find his skin, hot against her fingertips. He's almost gasping, though his eyes are closed, and why - _why _- hadn't she noticed how pale he is?

In that split second, Underhil gathers his feet under him.

"No! You stop, right there," she yells. "Come here."

The man moves slowly - Olivia feels the beat of every second against her skin, each moment between here and eternity stretching far too thin for her liking. Her mind fills with the security videos Astrid showed them the day before, those three minutes and thirty seconds in grainy black and white.

The full-color version is worse.

"How do we stop this?" Olivia demands. Underhil doesn't speak, still frozen by her gun. She stands, clasps her right wrist for stability, and says, "How?"

Underhil watches Peter. Olivia's heart beats in double-time.

"This isn't my doing," he says calmly, shaking his head.

"You're a doctor, right?" she says, changing direction. When he doesn't answer, she takes a step forward, one foot on either side of Peter, as though she can protect him by her presence alone. "Don't make me ask again."

"That's blood, agent," he offers, motioning with his chin. "Do you really want to go through the particulars of my degrees? There are doctors inside, though. Several that can help."

She follows where he's going, the words in those spaces between sentences. Hot tears of anger prick at her eyes, but her aim never wavers. Olivia is certain the moment she looks down to check, to verify Underhil's words, he'll be gone, slipping between cars, sliding through slush, lost.

But the wheezing she's hearing swirls around her ankles, a mist rising from below, aiming for her heart.

And she's _pissed_.

"He's still breathing, agent. That won't last long."

Olivia keeps her grip steady, but looks down. Peter's lips are stained with red specks of blood, and if she doesn't hold onto this anger - she hears, mid-thought, the _sloosh_ of feet moving through winter slush - she'll crumble.

Snow seeps into the cotton of her dress pants as she kneels on the ground. There is a voice shouting from somewhere off to the right, the direction more a general idea than known fact, but she's focused on Peter. Her hands warm as they grip his face, one on each side, and she hates how her voice trembles as she says his name.


	8. Chapter 8

It's still Tuesday here, so I'm not late! Here ya go — chapter 8, for your enjoyment. I have to say — all the comments and messages I've been getting are AMAZING and spur me on as I start to plot out my next casefic. I love you guys!

XO, miss kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

The hospital is cold, pale, and antiseptic.

Olivia hits end on her cell phone and falls back against the wall, hands coming up to her head, running over her loose locks, pulling them together only to let them shower over her shoulders. The tiled wall is cool through her thick winter jacket, hands resting on her thighs icy around the hard plastic of her cell phone.

What the _hell_ is going on? When had she lost her observational skills, become blind to Peter's declining health? Part of her blames him - but to curse his walled self would be hypocritical, as she's been holding a lot in herself. Wasn't it his tough, no-nonsense, sarcastic nature part of his initial allure? She sees a lot of herself in Peter, and realizes, in this instance, it may make clear communication damn near impossible.

_Why didn't she tell him to stay behind?_

The controlled chaos of the ER hustles around her, a choreographed ballet with many players, some simply rolled around, no longer in control of their own paths. A quick flash of her badge and a bit of embellishment allowed her through the giant, automated doors that separated the ER waiting area from the actual place, a dichotomy of cool, comforting tones versus the bleak, washed-out whites of surgical minimalism.

She stands there for a few more seconds, a life-time in this place, before pushing off the wall and crossing the short distance between solid and transparent, curtains pulled around bays that are anything but private. Counts one, two, and three, wrapping a hand around the edge of the blue curtain and slipping inside.

A nurse looks up, pen in her hand, recording data from overhead digital displays. Olivia smiles at her, a flash of courtesy, and forces herself not to look over at Peter.

"So, how is he?" she asks instead.

"He should be waking up soon. If he hadn't exasperated his lungs, the pneumonia might have progressed. Then again, he should have gotten checked out a week ago. Probably felt like crap before he collapsed." She goes back to the chart, pen scratching the paper in long, rushed strokes, and Olivia doesn't know what she could possibly be writing. A novel in inattentive girlfriends and stubborn boyfriends, a double-blind study.

"And how long," she motions with her hand _until he can leave_, the other resting on her hip, spine straight with coiled, nervous kinetic energy. Her mind is fractured, attentions pulled in half by two sides of herself struggling to fit into this new mold. Post-reconstruction, memories still seen in blues and reds, wondering what is happening _there_ while she's _here_. What clues Underhil's lab holds, where the man has gone, what she's missing.

But her eyes roam despite herself, and find Peter sleeping peacefully, drug-induced and controlled, oxygen helping him breathe easier. She wonders if he's ever found a night free of nightmares since he began dreaming again, or if, like her, he's always been consumed by darkness on the edges of his self.

"Depends," the nurse answers. "Sometimes, people can go home, others stay overnight. Won't know until the doctor comes back around."

Olivia nods. _What else can she do? _The nurse gives a smile, another bit of formality, an empty gesture, and disappears around the curtain, her hand pulling it shut as if it'll be able to block out the sounds beyond.

Olivia sits on the rolling stool, feet planted solidly on the tiled floor, wheels catching in a divot, rolling oddly; Olivia grabs the side-rail and corrects her course, then gives in to her curiosity and begins toying with her phone, wondering if Broyles will give her a play-by-play or leave her in the dark. She feels aimless, stuck, a ship without wind tethered to a rock at the bottom of the sea.

Ten minutes, twenty. She leans on the side-rail, hands cushioning her head, and sighs. "What are we doing?" she asks. A revisionist history in-progress on both sides. Her eyes linger on his face, and she realizes she's never really _looked_ at him before. She's seen him as a composite of personality and movement, of who he is in relation to everyone else - in the beginning, he was simply a ticket to achieve her goal, a pawn she was willing to play in order to save John. Has he ever truly escaped such a place in her life?

_Yes, _she tells herself. Which is why she's here, allowing herself to sit out this chase, this part of the investigation, and keeps her from leaving a note or message so she can come back later, at a more convenient time, to check in.

It does little to console her anger.

And finally, when she's stretched to the edge of her patience, foot bouncing in a tapping rhythm, hair pulled up and let loose as a way to keep her hands occupied, she spies him shift and moan and watches his hand move to rub his face.

"Hey," she says softly, back to resting her head on that rail of cold metal.

"Hey," he replies roughly, blinking back tears, light bright after forced sleep. "What happened?"

"Why didn't you tell me how you were feeling?"

He shakes his head. "I meant with Underhil."

Her anger swells, and her head is no longer resting, but playing with a range of emotion. "He got away."

"What?"

"Peter, you collapsed in the parking lot. It was either help you or get him. And I had to make a choice."

"Okay," he voices. Closes his eyes for a moment, and she hates that second of escape.

"You have no idea how irresponsible it is to go out in the field when you're not at your best," she begins, voice rising in volume, harsh and angry and guilty. "People get hurt that way, Peter, and yeah, in this case, I had to let a lead suspect escape because I had to help you. Who knows where he is now. I might have lost my only chance."

His eyes are still closed, and she fears he's fallen back asleep. _The nerve!_ So she leans forward and places a hand on his shoulder, pushing down on it slightly.

"Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Can you look at me, please? I think I've earned that much."

She waits, now standing, hands twisting on the bar. He opens his eyes, blue blazing into her own, and there's something hidden in there she can't put her finger on. She's used to men backing down, wilting at her authority. Yet he doesn't, never has, and maybe that's a bigger piece of the puzzle.

"Yes, Olivia, I heard you. I think the entire ER heard you. Did you remember that's where we are? Can you _please _wait until I'm maybe a little less fuzzy before you lay into me for being, what was that? Irresponsible?" It takes him a few tries to get the words out, a few deep breaths and coughs in-between, but each word is clearly laced with frustration.

"Oh my God," she says, almost rolling her eyes. "You're in no position to be angry with me."

"Should I be thanking you for saving my life? Sure. Yes. Thank you, Olivia, for showing enough compassion to save me over catching our suspect."

"Can't you be serious - "

"I _was_," he interrupts. She feels the emphasis in the lines of his body, in how his eyes are wide and shining, large from whatever drugs he's been given yet wholly himself. Her feet move on their own, the right one taking a step back, and she doesn't know if it's to increase the distance between them or solidify her position in defense.

Peter sighs and rubs his eyes, then continues. "I wasn't going to let you go alone. I've been sick before - I know, hard to believe, what with my past and everything - and can handle it. We had actionable information and needed to get over there."

"And what?" she retorts. "You thought we'd get there and he'd just confess? Surrender?"

"I'll admit, I didn't really think this through," he admits wryly. He smiles, smirks, really, and she wishes she could wipe it right off his face.

"No, if you were a real agent, you'd know not to put your partner in harm's way like that," she bites out.

The air between them crackles, heated, as their eyes meet each other. Both clench their jaws, not the sort to back down, to lose a fight. If she were paying attention, she'd hear how he's almost wheezing again, breath fast and struggling. She'd see the monitor or hear someone outside ask for a free nurse to go check out the problem. But Olivia's focus is myopic, her anger better than concern, easier.

"You know what?" he huffs out, hand unconsciously rubbing his chest. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm not a trained agent. I don't know your protocols and rules. But all the rules aren't going to watch your back, no matter how strong you think you are."

"And that's what you were doing, watching my back." She takes a breath and thinks. Hated, for a moment, that he was _watching out for her_, as though she can't do it herself. Calmer, she says, "You know what, Peter? I was doing just fine long before you came along."

"Oh, I'm sure you were," he spits back.

There's a commotion outside the curtain, a shuffling of feet she can read in her sleep, and knows her time's short. Thirty seconds, maybe less, and she'll have an audience. Olivia leans in close, her breath whispering on his cheek, and she lets her voice rumble lowly as she says, "Feel better, Peter. Really. I hope you do."

He turns his head, their lips close enough to touch, and says, "Thanks, sweetheart."

The curtain brushes open and she's slipping through it just as Walter hides Peter from view, leaning over to envelop him in a hug.

* * *

><p>Above, the sky is a dull, bleak gray, like the backside of a mirror. February's ending soon, yet the weather has done little in the way of warming up, the higher temperatures of two days ago ghosts of memory. The drive from Mass General out to Synergy is twice as long as the ride in, quieter, too, though she could make it interesting and turn on the siren. Olivia wraps herself in the silence instead, allows each thought in her head enough volume to shout.<p>

She feels terrible.

Which isn't easy for her to admit, even to herself. Olivia's usually so sure of her decisions, her actions, that the realization that perhaps she was a bit wrong stings like a biting winter wind against her pale cheeks. No, she wasn't wrong - Olivia knows this - but maybe tearing into Peter the moment he woke up may have been a bit much.

She doesn't dare broach the subject of her terror during the ambulance ride, or how she held her breath, waiting for him to begin growing like their two victims, or the worry that overrode her instincts.

The cement and glass building has changed since her last visit, with agents at the entrance, shiny black SUVs looped around the front. She slides into an empty spot near the end of the sidewalk and hops out, pulling her hat low over her ears. There's a clearer path cutting across the front of the lot, and she almost falls a few steps in; looks down and swears she sees specks of blood, but maybe it's just rust from an older car.

Inside, the receptionist is sitting on one of the lobby's drab gray couches, bruised and angry, speaking with an agent. Olivia gives her a moment's glance, then brushes past and heads down the hall to Underhil's lab - deja vu, except this time she's alone.

Feels like phantom partner syndrome, part two.

Underhil's white, spartan space is swarming with agents in blue windbreakers, gloved hands collecting whatever isn't nailed down into those thick, plastic evidence bags that always stick together when you're first trying to open them up. She wears leather instead of latex these days, glad to be rid of the smell and powder residue on her hands.

Broyles catches her entrance, waves her over with a miniature shift of his chin.

"How's Bishop?" is, naturally, his first question.

Olivia puts on her best mask and makes it quick. "Pneumonia. Doctors say he should be fine, might keep him overnight." She waits a beat, and then continues. "Any word on Underhil? Or Carlile?"

"We've put out an APB with Boston PD and have agents canvassing the area to see if they can find any clue as to where he went. His car is still in the lot," Broyles answers. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

"Yeah," breathes Olivia, "Walter's at the hospital."

"And you trust him to take care of everything?"

She smirks. "I trust Astrid."

In the chill of the lab, Olivia can feel the heat of Broyles' gaze but doesn't back down. There's a moment when she's sure he's going to ask her something else, or order her out of the scene, but then he gives her a nod. Her breath leaks out through her lips, shoulders not so tight.

"Agents?"

Both turn to one of the windbreaker-wearing men, waving them over through the doorway Underhil escaped through earlier; Olivia has a vague recollection of the lab space through there, more of the same white and off-whites that suggest cleanliness. She clears the door before Broyles and follows the crime scene agent through the room to another door. It's wedged ajar, forced by a search warrant and raw power, the room beyond dark. The agent turns on a flashlight and shines it into the room - Olivia feels the cold before she sees anything, a shiver running up her spine.

She knows what they'll find.

But instead of the light shining on the bags holding their own victims, the paralegal and investigator, Olivia finds there's an extra one, a black bag covered in frost, zipper nearly frozen in place by cold metal. She's thankful for her leather gloves, and while Broyles catches up, Olivia grips the zipper and pulls, revealing the contents to the hiss-zip of the splitting zipper.

The man inside still has a face, or a greater remaining expression than the bodies she's already seen; grayed, dead eyes stare up at her from the dark shadows of the bag above giant, split cheeks. There's no blood, just the sharp edges of tissue cut by a scalpel, each incision adding to the horrifying mask grown just before death. Olivia is transfixed, her fingers still clutching the zipper, as she studies what can be seen, how much it reminds her of -

"Is that another victim?" Broyle's voice breaks through, and Olivia's head snaps up to find him standing next to her, their breath puffy clouds. He sounds surprised, or at least as much as he can, the tone one she's only heard a handful of times. She only nods, mind beginning to whirl, adding this new piece to the puzzle.

They stand there, over the body, breathing in the cold, stale air.

* * *

><p>Walter's gripping his hand so tight, Peter half-wonders where the man's been hiding the free weights, half-wonders when the bones in his hand are going to crack apart. He wakes to the sensation with no memory of passing time, and forgoes glancing at the large, white clock hanging on the wall above the plastic needle disposal case since his blurry vision isn't clearing with a few blinks. Everything feels fuzzy, just out of focus, his mind taking just a second too long to grasp concepts like 'curtain' and 'chair.' As though his brain's given up on processing and gone on vacation.<p>

And there's that one split-second of terror as his drugged brain sees his father standing next to his bed and_ is this a real hospital, or a memory?_

A tiny part hopes he's grown-up and not at his father's mercy.

"Peter!" Walter exclaims, his grip tightening. "You're awake! How are you feeling, son? I have yet to see the doctor, and they no longer leave the chart with the patient. When did that change?"

The words jumble together as he speaks in a rush, and Peter's pretty sure he didn't take a breath anywhere in there. He tries to pick out what he can, but must appear pretty out of it, because he hears a rustle of fabric and Astrid materializes out of nowhere.

"A few years ago, Walter. I think we should let Peter sleep a little longer."

"But he's already awake," sighs Walter. "And I did nothing to help that along, did I, Peter?"

The question is understood, but his mind can't connect an answer to his vocal cords. He's floating in sea of white, body tingling, numb, except for his right hand, which is still clutched tightly by Walter. So he simply looks at Astrid, or the Astrid-shape he can find in the dim light of the cool ER, and hopes that is enough to answer whatever is hanging in the air.

And then Walter's face is looming over his, soft edges and general shapes, eyes where they should be, nose in the center. Peter feels the pressure leave his hand as Walter releases it, but then, the hands are coming toward him, and he flinches – doesn't mean to, doesn't think about it, simply _does_. The move seems to shock Walter, who freezes, mid-air, his hands hovering inches from Peter's chest, blue knit blanket still tucked up to his chin.

"I – I," Walter stutters, but doesn't finish. Lets his mouth shut as he thinks of what he could say, probably remembering something new, hidden from himself by missing segments of his brain.

Or something like that.

Peter shuts his eyes and brings up his left hand to rub them, wishing they could be cleaned like dusty windows, but when he opens his eyes, things are just as fuzzy as before.

He remembers a little bit. The chase. The medical building. Olivia after arriving, her voice tight as she demanded to see him. Nothing in there reveals why he's on pain medication – past experience dictates this floaty feeling as something other than antibiotics. With his body checked out, a mystery to him, Peter can't figure out if he's okay enough to get the hell out of there.

Off to his right, the curtain swishes, stuttering movement and quick yet unsure steps an easier clue to figure out than what he can see.

Walter's left.

He waits for Astrid to speak, to say something, to try to mend this little wrinkle like all the other disagreements she's been witness to over the past few years. _Fix this, Astrid, because I'm too tired to. _His life has been one issue after another, one situation in which he needs to smooth things over, and lately, Peter is sick of always being the bad guy who needs to apologize.

But Astrid doesn't say anything. Simply stands there, trying to figure out who needs her more.

"Go," Peter tells her, finally finding his voice. It sounds like he's chased a handful of gravel with strong whiskey.

"No, I'll stay," she responds. "He won't go far, and has a few dollars in his pocket for the vending machine." She sits, shoulders slumped, as tired as he feels. "How are you feeling?"

Peter considers this for a moment, and then loses his train of thought. "Floaty."

"Yeah, they have you on some painkillers, I think. I overheard Olivia talking to the doctor earlier."

Peter smiles for a moment, but it's a struggle. A cynical response to being in the ER of Mass General chatting with a junior FBI agent instead of Walter or his girlfriend. And it's probably his fault they've left.

"Peter, that isn't true," Astrid says softly. He shifts his head and realizes his error. "Olivia was needed back at Dr. Underhil's lab. And Walter is, well," - she shrugs - "Walter. He'll be back."

All he can do is nod, and feels his brain slosh around in his head.

The curtain opens again, and a flick of a switch floods the small space with light; both Astrid and Peter blink back tears as their eyes adapt. Walter shuffles in behind the doctor, sticking close to the wall, hands rubbing together the fabric of his favorite sweater, though he appears to be trying to read the chart over the doctor's shoulder, the manila folder thick with papers, and test results, all paid for by the FBI.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Bishop?" the doctor asks. Peter's sure they've already been introduced – the man's face is familiar – but can't seem to remember.

"Pretty good, actually," he grinds out. "Can't feel much of anything."

The doctor nods, paging through a few more sheets, and curling them over the front cover. "Yes. We've got you on a low dose of morphine for the bruised ribs along your right side. Let's see, yep, fourth and fifth have small cracks, should heal on their own, but you'll need to watch physical activity." He reads through a few more things before shutting the file and holding it to his chest with crossed arms. "I don't need to remind you how lucky you are. A few more days, and you would be in intensive care. As it is, we're going to keep you overnight, check your lung function in the morning."

"You're sure?" Walter asks. "About the pneumonia. My son has a varied medical history, and any – "

"Don't worry, Mr. Bishop," the doctor smiles, turning to Walter. "Your son will be fine."

"Good, good, that is good."

"We'll get you transferred to a regular room soon." And the doctor goes to leave, slipping through the gap between the wall and curtain when Walter speaks up.

"May I see the x-rays?"

The doctor looks over his shoulder, frowning. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were a doctor."

"I'd like to look over his chart as well."

"Walter," Astrid says, reaching out to him.

Peter feels himself slipping, falling under, eyes burning from the bright light. It feels just like his nightmares, and he wishes Walter would come take his hand, because he knows this won't be a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>A bell rings over the door as she pushes it open, and Olivia thinks of her first visit here, trying to pinpoint how she missed it; remembers someone holding the door for her, and pushes the vivid memory from her mind. There's no room for sentimentality, not now.<p>

The woman behind the counter looks up, her red polish touched up at the tips. She seems to shrink, her smile a thin mask over her displeasure at seeing Olivia again, and quickly turns to walk away, heels clicking on the old, white and green tiles. Probably off to alert the manager, Olivia slides onto a red stool at the counter and pulls the beanie from her head to wait.

An older man comes into view, the waitress off to take the order of an older couple in a booth near the back. He comes to stand just in front of Olivia, arms crossed, sour expression on his face.

"Can I help you?" he all but grunts. He's exuding a serious vibe of _go away_, and it makes Olivia smile, relishing the challenge.

"I was in here yesterday and noticed a man sitting right about here," she starts, motioning with her hands as she talks. "And he seemed uncharacteristically interested in me and my friend."

The man barely moves, still radiating annoyance at her presence.

"Okay, this is how this is going to work," bites out Olivia. "I'm going to put this down," – she pulls her badge from her jacket's inner pocket and plunks it down on the counter – "and you're going to answer my questions."

"I haven't heard any questions, yet," he says, shifting slightly, that subtle flinch Olivia has come to recognize her badge produces. It'd be a lie to say she doesn't get any satisfaction from most reactions to her badge, some small, angry part of her rejoicing at the position of power she now holds over most men. She smiles at him, all sugar, and folds her hands on the counter.

"I just found a dead man in a body bag at a lab today, and I can't help but feel you may have something to do with how he got there," she reveals, voice hard and tight. "Not directly, but a person doesn't die and go missing without someone knowing what happened. And with that field there being ground zero for what's been going on," – she motions forward, in the direction of the field – "I'm sure you have an idea of what I'm talking about. So here's my question – what type of deal did you make with Paul Carlile to keep things quiet?"


	9. Chapter 9

It's still Friday here, so I'm safe, right? I ended up being much busier than I thought I'd be today, and then a meeting went late. BUT! Here it is. I'm going to be so sad after the last chapter is posted!

I just LOVED your reactions to the last chapter! Y'all made me feel awesome!

xo, miss kira

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

It is dark outside and he doesn't like this place.

Walter stands in the hallway, alone, watching the ballet of human traffic pass him by, doctors and nurses in colorful scrubs – no longer white, that pristine, clean white, a color he still believes conveys that concept, but those blues and greens that make the shock of blood upon cotton fibers less frightening.

Whatever the reason, Walter delights in watching the people walk to and fro, some faster than others. His mind wanders as he stands there, hands clutched together, fingers rubbing against each other, nervous ticks he falls back on. He's uncertain, a concept he doesn't like, but finds it almost unavoidable when his past comes back to him in bright, colorful bursts of memory. They've been coming back faster, now, than in the last two years he's been without those medications forced down his throat in St. Claire's, and occasionally wishes for that muddled ignorance he occupied for so long.

Understanding, he finds, doesn't make it any easier.

He spots a familiar shape and smiles, nervously, unsure if he's happy or sad, but unable to achieve neutral without impartial fact. Astrid approaches and places a hand on his shoulder, a motion he's come to identify as concern.

"Walter, why don't you go in? I'm sure Peter would like it if he weren't alone," she suggests softly.

"No, no, I think he would mind," Walter rattles off. Without the people to distract him, he finds himself thinking of all the times he's failed his son, and how he only wanted to _save_ him. Couldn't the boy see he did these things for his own good? Why must he always take such a negative view of his suggestions and actions, instead of viewing them as rational? Sometimes, Peter truly astounds him, with his narrow mind and inability to see the larger picture.

"Walter?" Astrid asks.

Walter blinks and comes back to the hallway, leaving the house in Cambridge, the first one, that dream home he gave to Elizabeth once they moved to America, his way of thanking her for leaving England so he could take that position at Harvard that started all this. If they'd stayed – if he'd been the ex-patriot instead of her – would their son have been born with the same mysterious illness? Did there exist, out there, an alternate universe where the Bishops stayed in England and their son never died?

"C'mon," Astrid's voice sounds, and he realizes he's drifted off into his thoughts once again, words and images running together. She pulls the stainless steel latch on the door, but Walter moves fast, grabs her hand and the latch and closes the door.

"Okay, this is getting silly. Peter loves you, Walter. He was just disoriented – "

"Yes, yes, _precisely_! His reaction was of being disoriented and seeing me! Me!" His voice cracks and he finds his shoes terribly interesting all the sudden, the leather scuffed and caked with salt from sidewalks. "I wish I could go back in time and change what I did."

"Then go tell him that."

Walter frowns and meets her eyes. "I can't do that, he's asleep."

"That doesn't mean he can't hear you. Go."

She moves quickly, as she does sometimes when trying to get him to do something he doesn't want to, and he's in the dark room before he knows it, the door closed behind him. There's an empty bed, the nature of their work requiring discretion at all times, and he considers curling up on it and going to sleep, curtain drawn until he's hiding behind it – but it reminds him too much of _before_, and if anything, he needs to be strong.

Peter is sleeping – how many times has he watched him sleep, watched and hoped and waited? Walter stands beside the bed, eyes flicking to the cityscape out the window, then back to his son's face, and says, "Peter, I'm sorry."

He doesn't say anything back. Walter takes a seat and busies himself with mental computations.

* * *

><p>Her steps are weary as she walks down the too-bright hallway, energy almost drained by the surroundings; Olivia wonders if she were walking up the steps to her apartment, or even the house in Cambridge, she'd feel so tired. <em>Probably not<em>. In the elevator, the gold mirrored paneling washes out her face, gives her a sickly pallor, so she leans her head back and closes her eyes as floors fly by.

The elevator lobby is empty when she steps out, and Olivia smoothes back her hair with her free hand, looping her index finger through the elastic band holding her ponytail up and shakes out her blond locks as she walks. She feels more comfortable, more casual, and tries to find a smile as she counts down the room numbers.

Not that she needs to. Astrid is standing halfway down the hall, her coat unbuttoned, open to reveal a deep plum button-up, a color Olivia wishes she'd have the desire to wear.

"Hey," Olivia greets.

"Hey," comes the tired reply.

"Walter inside?"

"Yeah, but give him a moment. He's working through something right now, and it took some coaxing to get him in there in the first place," she explains. Then, after a moment, she seems to examine Olivia, eyes reading something on her forehead, but says, instead, "Hey, listen, I was able to pull up the ownership records on the house you and Peter went to? And found out it's owned by Underhil's mother."

"His mother?" Olivia asks.

Astrid nods. "Apparently, Underhil kept it in her name after she died." She then softens, and says, "Did something happen earlier?"

"Like what?"

Astrid sighs, but never gets the chance to finish, for which Olivia is only half-grateful. Walter slips from the room, expression sour but hopeful, as it is so often as of late, but he brightens as he sees Olivia.

"Walter? I know you may want to stay here, and normally, I wouldn't say anything, but we recovered some evidence from Dr. Underhil's lab and, well," she shrugs, trying to get out what she needs to say without having to say it. "He's a fugitive, and if there's something there that might help us find him..." Olivia trails off, giving a tight smile, and holds her file up as she finishes, "I'll stay."

"Yes, yes, of course." He turns to leave, then pauses, grabbing Olivia's arm. "But you will call me if anything happens, yes? Promise me this, Olivia. You won't leave, for any reason."

She finds herself looking him straight in the eyes, his cloudy blue an aged, muted tone of Peter's, and knows what he's thinking of, _when_ he's thinking of. "I promise."

He doesn't move for a moment, then nods and turns to take Astrid's arm in his own. Olivia catches her pat his hand once, twice, as they head for the elevator.

The room is dark, blinds closed, so Olivia clicks on the dim lamp beside the bed and settles in. Drapes her coat and jacket on the empty bed, kicks her shoes off onto the floor and folds her legs under her in the padded chair. The pen from the table twists her hair up into a loose bun, on-hand whenever she needs to jot down a note or idea across Underhil's file, the reading unremarkable at best.

She still follows the threads, tries to put together a solid picture of the man from the bits a pieces the government managed to collect. The file is in no way complete, lacking part of his work history and a few years during graduate school, and Olivia can't help but wonder, as she always does, if the one clue she needs is in those missing periods. Civil liberties work for and against the FBI, even after 9/11, and the former prosecutor in her knows this all to well.

Eyelids drooping, Olivia's head dips toward her chest before she catches it, blinking quickly, trying to ward off sleep. There are still threads to untangle, clues to uncover, and she isn't going to sleep until she can wake with a solid lead.

Until she can apologize.

Sighing, Olivia closes the file around the pen, the last few notes more doodles in the margins of a high-school notebook than the thoughts of an experienced investigator, and places it on the table beside the lamp and phone. She flops back into the chair, feet hitting the cold floor and causing her to wince and lift them; she props them on the side of the bed, toes digging into the scratchy sheets, crosses her arms over her knees, and rests her chin on them.

She should go for some coffee. There's a machine down the hall that is probably still working despite visiting hours being officially over; she could get a cup, wake up some more, and read over the file for the fourth time.

But she promised Walter, didn't she?

So she stays, watching him sleep. How close did she come to losing him today? It surprises Olivia, thinking in those terms after all these years. She's always wanted him to be safe, especially in the beginning, before she'd seen how well he can handle himself – and honestly, Olivia's pretty sure he's been in tougher situations than she can even imagine – but now thinks in terms relating to _her_. _She_ almost lost _him_.

And thinking, she realizes she would have acted the same way, would have downplayed the symptoms, gone out even when feeling sick, would have risked herself to make sure _he_ was okay, looked after, backed-up.

"God, I'm an idiot," she says to herself, to the black outside the window, to the soft breaths in the air. She runs her hand through her hair, over her part, letting it fall until she's almost in shadow. This relationship thing has always been hard for her, and this is uncharted territory.

She stands and stretches, spine popping, a reminder of past injuries, and she grimaces, allowing herself to in the dim, mostly empty room. A nurse comes in, Crocs silent on the tile floor. She moves with a sure grace, checking machines, looking over things, giving Olivia a smile as she checks the dosage monitor, fingers grasping those thin, clear tubes with practiced ease.

It's a bit too much. Olivia slips her shoes back on and nods at the nurse before leaving the room, light in the hall much brighter, as if it's a stage and she's just been caught forgetting her lines.

The coffee machine is old, half the pictures faded, so she hits black and plays with a packet of sugar as she waits.

* * *

><p>For a moment, he imagines the hand patting his shoulder is Olivia's, that she's come back despite their earlier argument. Peter's life has been a series of fights - against his father, his mother on the worst of days, when sick, again. Fights with dealers and shady club owners and marks and prospective clients. He's lived on the defensive since before he can remember, always pushed in the corner, swinging wildly, desperate to survive and now - he takes a mental break to open his eyes and attributes years of lying to disguising his surprise and a bit of disappointment when he sees it's only the nurse, in for an hourly check.<p>

"Hey there. How are you feeling?" she asks softly with a smile.

He sighs as best he can with a cannula in his nose and tries a reassuring smile. "Sore," comes a half-truthful answer.

"That's normal for a few bruised and cracked ribs," she chides. "You'll be sore for at least a couple weeks."

"Not my first time," Peter admits.

"Then you're an old hand at this. What about your chest; is it easier to breathe?"

Peter considers this; he never admitted, even to himself, how each breath felt like a knife slicing down into his lungs, and that was only when he could force air down far enough. The last week has been survived on shallow breaths, more and more difficult, his head pounding loudly, a beat of warning.

He tries a few deeper breaths and hunches forward slightly as a coughing fit leaps from his chest, each burning in his raw throat as he tries - tries to take a breath.

_Fuck. _

The nurse pours a glass of water while he tries to find balance, and holds the straw near his lips. He sees it through squinted, tearing eyes and latches on, rejoicing in the soothing coolness of the water. It helps, just a bit.

"Let's stick to shallow breaths for now. It'll take a few days for the antibiotics to clear out the infection," explains the nurse.

Peter nods, feeling all of ten years old. Lying back, he closes his eyes against the dizziness in his head, mind swimming through sickness and medication. He feels like he's in a surrealist painting, fumbling along through hidden intention and blatant symbolism.

The air is cool, comfortable, and he focuses on how it brushes against the skin of his exposed arms, the plains of his cheeks. Everything else is over stimulating, too much information overloading his wavy consciousness.

He's in that space, foggy and half-himself, when the nurse greets someone entering the room.

When he hears the reply, Peter opens his eyes, blood whooshing into his ears, the full extent of stimuli rushing at him all at once.

Blurry yet somehow radiant - tears remaining on his eyes causing her glow, no doubt - is Olivia, jagged at the edges, holding a generic cup of coffee.

To say he's surprised is understating it.

Their earlier argument rings in his ears, louder than the soft hum of cleaned air circulating through the room. He's had arguments before, knows the repercussions. People leave or come at him, chasing him from cities, countries, his stubborn nature barring apologies. And while his fight with Olivia wasn't as severe, he defiantly didn't expect her to show for at least a day.

Her olive eyes find his, and there's a tired softness there. "Hey," she breathes.

Peter doesn't say anything, his throat tickling like it used to after long soccer games; he's afraid opening his mouth will cause more coughs, send his wet lungs pounding into insanely tender ribs.

_No_, he thinks as the nurse excuses herself, _better and less painful to remain quiet_.

Alone, Olivia seems to shrink, or maybe it's just a slight shift of her tough exterior. She comes to stand next to the bed, hand reaching for his right; she grasps it in her own, holding on tight.

"The doctor says you can leave tomorrow," she starts, her gaze settling somewhere over his left shoulder. After a beat, he knows there isn't more to her thought, nothing until he joins in.

"I know," he says, and only coughs once, wincing as his left side peaks in pain though the steady dose of painkillers in his system; Peter groans at the thought of tomorrow, and how much more it'll hurt to breathe.

Olivia runs a hand through her hair, blond locks falling back past her shoulders. A nervous tick, a tell, and he's fallen into that moment he knows so well, where he can jump in and manipulate to get what he wants. It's critical when conning someone, can make or break months of planning, yet for some reason, Peter can't bring himself to exploit it. He's mad and hurt and fuck is he sore, and who is she to lecture him in an ER, anyway?

"I've been thinking about this all day," Olivia reveals. "And I'm really trying to see things from your point of view."

His point of view? He'd roll his eyes if the room wasn't still a bit off-kilter, slanted in shadows. He knows that tone, though, the one where kindness covers razor-sharp disappointment.

"I feel like we've had this conversation before," he quips, speaking slow, hoping to stave off any more coughs. "Except I was the one standing."

Olivia rubs her forehead with her free hand, her grip on his still strong, maybe stronger still, anger leaking out through her hands. "I know my limitations – "

"No, Olivia. You don't let anyone care for you," he cuts her off. "You think you have to do everything on your own, and God forbid you actually show any weakness."

"And this is different?" she asks, motioning in the air between them. "I tried, Peter, but you just refused to do anything about it."

"Is this before or after you benched me?" he shoots. Gives off a half-cough that sends spikes through his chest.

"I thought I'd give you time for your father to check you out."

Peter winces. "There's a sentence I never want to hear again. And no, I didn't need Walter to check anything."

A raise of her eyebrows spells out the undertone of what she's thinking. _Obviously you did_.

Does he need to spell this out to her? Bring up a past she's heard of already, deduced from his father's manic mumblings, his over-devotion to the point of smothering? The idea exhausts him, and he closes his eyes, floating along whatever's being pumped into his system.

"Peter?" she asks softly.

He opens his eyes; she's standing over him, now, bent slightly at the waist.

"Every time I got sick in high school, my mom would," he sighs, unable to finish. He sees her in his mind, a jumbled mess of now and then, of the woman he remembers and the one he knew. Everything is messed up, wires crossed, and maybe that's why he went so long without saying anything, doing anything.

"I think I get it," Olivia smiles, surprising him. "We all know I have issues, too. But isn't that what a relationship is? Being there for the other person? I'm not the best at this," she admits, "but I'm trying."

Peter considers this, blinks a few times, trying to wet his eyes; he's so tired, they're beginning to burn, even in the low light. "I'm sorry I'm not a full agent. I'm learning as we go. I may be unconventional, but I get things done."

"You're not on your own anymore, Peter," she chides. "I don't know how you operated before – "

"I did what I had to do."

Olivia sighs and falls into the chair beside the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She seems to examine them, looking for clues among the lines across them, the calluses from her gun. He watches her, too tired to speak, his ribs throbbing in time with his heart, unsteady.

She takes a breath, eyes still on her hands, and says, softly, "I was terrified. I came around the side of the building and saw you collapse, and I was terrified you'd been infected." Olivia looks up, her eyes shining with tears gathered at the edges. "I thought you were going to die."

Peter takes a moment, tries to recall the series of events that lead him here, and reapplies that all too often descriptor of the dumbest smart man. _Of course_ Olivia would think he'd been infected. He'd been coughing the entire day, growing weaker, and then there was that moment when he couldn't take a breath, was wheezing and struggling and losing himself – _that_ was the mistake. Not being sick and doing little about it. Not pushing himself. But the similarities between their victims' manner of death and his last few minutes before passing out.

"Hey," he calls his voice a hoarse whisper. Olivia looks up, settles her hands. "I was an idiot."

She leans forward and takes his hand in hers, rocking forward to place a kiss on his cheek. It's soft and sweet and feels too innocent for his liking; Peter lifts a hand and cups her face, pulling her gently towards him. She smiles and obeys, their lips meeting, heat passing between them. His senses feel overloaded as she pours all that worry into him, through parted lips and a shy tongue. He meets her halfway, closes his eyes, and hopes he doesn't breathe wrong, doesn't cough.

Her lips are perfect. Soft yet strong, her mouth sweet yet burnt from the bad coffee she chugged down to stay awake. He's used to that – to all those extra bits of her, the burn of alcohol or the smooth taste of coffee – and drinks it in, lets it all wash over him as he falls further and further down. He could get lost, here, in just her kiss, a simple one, her hands bracing her body above his.

When she stands and presses those wet, delicious lips to his forehead, Peter Bishop is the happiest man in the world.

* * *

><p>The phone rings three times before breaking through to Olivia's consciousness; she comes awake with a jolt, launching for the phone before the call hits voicemail.<p>

"Dunham," she says, voice sticking in her throat.

Sleeping in a hospital is never comfortable, no matter where you do so, and Olivia carefully sits up and swings her feet over the side of the bed, rolling her neck a few times as Broyles gives a gruff hello over the line. Her bare feet hit the cold tile and she hisses in response, toes seeking out her shoes while whispering a quick, "Hold on." Unable to find them, she looks over her shoulder, giving a longing look at Peter, before padding out on the balls of her feet into the hall, closing the door behind her.

"Sorry, sir," she apologizes, leaning against the wall. There's coffee, somewhere – she can smell it – and Olivia checks the pockets of her slacks for change or a loose dollar bill.

Nothing.

"I just wanted to give you an update on the manhunt," he says. "We haven't heard anything from the APBs. The only good thing about that is there's a high probability Underhil hasn't been able to leave the city. I was wondering if you had any insight into where he could be hiding."

"Uh, nothing yet. His file doesn't give much more than a sketchy background and his home and work addresses."

"I understand. How's Peter?"

Olivia grins. She long ago stopped being surprised by Broyles' ability to stay a step ahead of her. "Better. The doctor said he can be released later today."

"That's good to hear. Let me know if you come up with anything."

He clicks off, leaving Olivia alone in the hallway. She takes a moment, running a hand through her hair, before turning and walking back into the room. There has to be _something_ in the file, written between the lines, just out of reach. A man can't completely disappear with a net thrown over the city. She's pondering the mechanics of going to ground as she closes the door behind her, palm flat against the wood. She's missing the warmth she left just a few minutes ago and wonders if anyone would notice if she went back to sleep, if only for a little bit.

Except there's a scientist out there with the potential to kill more people, and it's clear he's willing to do anything to achieve his goal.

If only she knew what that was.

Olivia sighs and drops into the chair, hand landing on the file abandoned the night before, hoping a new day will give new perspective.

"Hey, was that Broyles?"

A smile crosses her lips, reaches her eyes, and Olivia looks up. Peter's turned toward her, eyes freshly awake, brilliantly blue in the early-morning light. He reaches up to rub them with his left hand before running it down his face, over three-day-old stubble she's found she actually likes.

"Yep," replies Olivia.

"What time is it?" he groans.

"About seven." Looking down at the file, Olivia spies her shoes under the hospital bed, and reaches out with her foot to grab them. "You should go back to sleep."

"Only if you do, too," he replies.

She shakes her head, motioning to the file in her lap. "There's something I'm missing. I just need to get into his head, figure out his next move."

"What's the file say?"

Opening it with one hand, she pages through poor copies of faxed documents, scan lines running through the black ink, almost like stripes.

"He started researching mosquitoes and virology in various places in Africa, came back, and continued his work for Synergy. He had a lab partner but alienated him. Uh, published a few papers." She looks up from the pages. "We found a third body in his lab, a local man. I don't think his death was intentional; through Carlile, he was keeping an eye on whoever came in contact with the mosquitoes."

"And our victims slipped the net," Peter supplies.

"Apparently so. What I can't figure out is why he went through all that trouble – hiring someone, bribing the receptionist – instead of just coming clean." She rests her head in her hand, elbow smashing the file onto the bed, thinking.

"You said he published a few papers, right?"

"Hrmm? Yeah."

"Most of those are attached to a research institution. It should be on the paper. Maybe he has an office somewhere else, somewhere no one else knows about," he ventures. Olivia nods, catching his eyes, how the blue has darkened, swirls with a deeper truth he isn't saying, and she wants to know – craves, really – the answer. "You forget, I've had a few published myself; you kind of get into those things when at a place like MIT."

"Right. How could I forget?"

He grips her hand, eyes still concealing something. Olivia decides to do the hard thing, the easiest thing, and pages through the file to read the by-line on one of Underhil's papers.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sad to see this tale come to an end, but all good things do, don't they?

A million thanks, again, to my betas and cheerleaders, Bryn & Nikki Greenleaf. A billion kisses to all of you who've spammed my askbox, sent me notes, and prodded me along to post — I've never had that happen before, and it has not only given me great confidence to try another one of these multi-chapter casefics (currently being written!), but cheered me considerably on some ucky days.

I am just blown away by how awesome everyone's been in support of my little story! This is a bittersweet post, but know for sure you have NOT seen the last of me and my fics! And this is all because of each of you beautiful reviewers, followers, and those who click those little red hearts.

xoxo,  
>miss kira<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

A waterfall of metal jars Astrid from sleep; she shoots up on the brown leather couch in the Bishops' living room, limbs all akimbo, rocking to her feet with worst-case scenarios running through her head. She crosses the room in a few quick strides, rounding the corner into the kitchen, where Walter stands frowning at a pile of pots and pans on the floor.

"You scared me!" she says, holding a hand over her pounding heart. Astrid laughs a bit, more nervous than amused, and finally takes in the state of the kitchen.

There is flour everywhere. Eggs cracked on the counter. A box of baking soda on its side. When she follows the trail of pecans to an opened bag holding more, she gets a clearer picture of what, exactly, Walter's been trying to do.

"How long have you been awake?"

He blinks up at her, shoulders still stooped. "Awake, dear?"

"Oh, Walter," she sighs, finger drawing circles that overlap in the flour. The spilled ingredients paint a picture, an abstract piece, a collage with deeper meaning she can see written in every wrinkle of Walter's face. Glancing at the clock, she holds back a groan and bypasses the pile on the floor to reach the coffeemaker, where yesterday's batch remains dried on the glass.

* * *

><p>"We tracked Underhil's research papers to the virology and pathology departments at Boston College. He's been moonlighting there for the past year, ever since he returned from a research trip to Africa. The college had no idea he was working at Synergy."<p>

Olivia parks her SUV with one hand and hops out, ponytail swishing against the black wool of her jacket, loose strands whipping around her face in the icy wind that's begun swooshing through the labyrinth of streets of Boston. Two more pull up behind her, flashing lights catching the attention of students trudging through iced-over snow, red and blue creating a dichotomy of hues under a cloudy sky.

Agents fan past her as she scans the area, finishing her call.

"Why wasn't this information in his file?" Broyles asks over the line. She can hear the hum of a car's engine whining in the reconstituted crackle behind his voice.

"Because Underhil was fired six months ago," she answers, following the agents up the steps. "We're checking his office."

"I'll be there in ten."

Olivia hangs up, unwilling to wait. If Underhil's here, he won't remain holed-up for long; he has to know they'd figure this out, even if it took a bit of out-of-the-box thinking, and be coming to search whatever he's left in the unused space. If Walter's lab could remain untouched for seventeen years, gathering dust in the basement of Harvard, Olivia's sure Underhil has _something_ here.

Sweeping into the administrative building, Olivia leads the team to the security alcove, flashing her badge before the guard behind the desk can say a word. "I need to know where Richard Underhil's office was."

"Ma'am?" the guard remarks, caught off-guard, raising an eyebrow.

"Underhil. He used to teach here, right?" she half-barks. "Where was his office?"

"Is, ma'am. Dr. Underhil is still leasing space from the college."

"Show us."

* * *

><p>They move quickly down the halls, past bewildered students and faculty alike, agents in black their own little parade. Olivia easily keeps pace with the security guard, gun in her hand, dropped down at her side, almost hidden by the fabric of her jacket. Unorthodox, around so many students, but necessary. Underhil is here; she can <em>feel <em>it in the way her blood starts pumping and her instincts scream for her to _move faster._

She can tell they're nearing their destination because of the way the walls seem to brighten yet dim, clean science in old buildings. She's used to the smell of labs, and while these may not be the modern marvels of Massive Dynamic or the dust-covered tables of the Harvard lab, they exude the same feel.

As they move deeper into the building, Olivia wonders if it's something imprinted on her when she was young.

The guard slows as they reach a nondescript wood door. There are no names etched here, simply a black label that reads D-148 in white, san-serif script. He steps forward and inserts a key into the lock, then takes two steps back as something crashes to the ground inside; Olivia is almost pushing him out of the way as she reaches for the knob and turns it quickly, shoving the door open so hard, it bangs against the bookcase near its hinges.

"Freeze!" she shouts into the office. Sunlight streams from a single window, eye-level with the ground outside, and Underhil's managed to break the glass enough to free the frame. Cold air wooshes in so fast, it nearly steals her breath.

There isn't time to warn anyone behind her. Olivia turns and shoots down the hallway, gun in hand now out for all to see as she runs. Takes a right, and then climbs the steps two at a time up to the doorway. Bursts out and wonders, in the back of her mind, or maybe even later, why this suspect seems to like leading her outside.

_The guilty always run._

Ahead, Underhil is stumbling in the snow, a black duffle bag clutched under one arm. His loafers lose traction and he slips, catching himself on a snow-covered bush, bare hand sinking into the icy snow.

"Underhil!" screams Olivia into the blistering storm. Snow falls around them, giant flakes solidified and tossed by frigid air, catching on her lashes when she's trying to line up a shot. "Freeze! I will shoot!"

He seems to hear her, somehow, and turns, breath coming out in quick gasps.

"You're not going _anywhere_," Olivia adds, feeling stronger, invincible. Her steps crunch along the sidewalk on oversized grains of salt, winter's own soundtrack, and she steadies her aim with a hand cupped around her wrist. "Put the bag down."

"I don't know if I should, agent," Underhil answers, clutching it even tighter to his torso. "The zipper may fail or maybe there's a loose seal."

"We know how to counteract them."

Underhil pauses. "Really? So fast?"

"Just put the bag down and put your hands on your head."

In a desperate last-ditch effort, Underhil tosses the bag at Olivia. Unprepared, it hits her arms, sending her aim off wildly – she unintentionally lets off a shot, the bullet grazing old brick – before she loses her footing and falls back into a snow drift. The other agents must have caught on by now, or at least she hopes so, because Underhil runs faster than any college professor should, heading for the parking lot.

Crushed salt stings her palms as she pushes off the ground. Olivia leaves the bag in the middle of the sidewalk and takes off, feeling the cold burn of winter air in her lungs as she runs. It feels a bit like what low atmosphere did, Over There, when she ignored the warning signs in order to catch her prey; burning and constricting, except here, there are no canisters of oxygen to help her catch her breath.

In eleven seconds, she's caught up to Underhil and takes a shot off his left side as a warning. _Next time, I'll hit you._ He continues to run, though Olivia doesn't suspect he thinks he'll be getting away. There's a mad desperation to his movements, a fight-or-flight that can't be switched off. What else is there to do but surrender and admit failure?

"Stop!" she tries one last time.

She's reaching out for him, fingertips brushing the heavy fabric of his coat, when a shot rings out and he falls forward, almost pitching Olivia into a tree. She alters course, runs off the sidewalk, and stops. In-between sucking breaths, hands on her knees, she looks up to see Broyles standing beside his SUV, gun in his hands.

Smiling, Olivia goes back to breathing, puffs of white-hot air fogging her focus. Shooting a suspect has less finesse than tackling him to the ground, but does the trick. Maybe she should give Peter a little more credit the next time they take down a suspect for his creative and sometimes foolish capture techniques.

It still hurts to breathe. Olivia re-holsters her weapon and wonders who picked up Underhil's duffel.

* * *

><p>Never has Peter Bishop been so glad for an interruption as he is at that moment.<p>

Olivia knocks twice on the glass before the front door swings open, her head peeking in before she enters the foyer, a habit she quickly developed after the last time she simply walked in unannounced and Walter was, well, being Walter. In an extreme way. She smiles in Peter's direction and unwraps her scarf from around her neck, holding onto the ends as she enters the living room.

"I would have thought you'd be in bed by now," she comments. Peter shifts his legs and she sits in the space he makes while he closes the laptop on his stomach.

"What can I say? You've turned me into a workaholic. Something I have to admit I've never really been called before," he answers.

She leans forward for a quick kiss, her nose inches from his as she says, "I'll make a law-abiding man out of you yet, Bishop."

He laughs at her comment, eyes crinkling at the edges, and the fact that he doesn't cough for at least ten seconds afterward is a testament to how much better he's feeling. Not that the cough's gone away, or the dizziness and nausea. But breathing, he's discovered, is somewhat easier. He'd rank this a bad flu with the added component of horse-pill sized antibiotics and a strict bed rest policy.

"I wouldn't go that far," he breathes. "But I'm definitely improving."

Olivia smiles and stands, and shrugs off her heavy coat. "I think that has more to do with the unlimited resources of Massive Dynamic and the US Government than any character growth," she says. And he'd usually take that as a criticism, except he's given in and taken a few of the painkillers he was sent home with, so very little has been able to bother him.

Except for Walter's baking.

Which Olivia finally notices in the form of her nose wrinkling. She asks, with her eyes, and Peter smirks.

"You smell that? He's been at it for hours. If they hadn't given me some anti-nausea pills, I think I might have committed my first homicide despite how much I like having the guy around."

"Yeah, I wouldn't blame you. What is he making?" Olivia sits in the chair near his head, a small table between them. He shifts in his cocoon on the leather couch, turning his head to the right to face her.

"I have no idea. I think there was some baking earlier, but he's moved onto more complex dishes as the day's gone on," he replies, trying to remember back to earlier.

The details are fuzzy, at best, his usual attention blurred by the time Astrid brought Walter to pick him up. He's been camped on the couch since after lunch, when, refreshed from his first nap of the day and heading into his second, he found the stairs a little bothersome when coordination and twined ribs got together.

"I'll order some of that soup you like from Chang's," Olivia comments, her words the sweetest he's heard all day. She slouches back in the chair, hair unkempt as it can be in a ponytail, in jeans and a sweater, meaning she went home before heading over.

Peter blinks, and wishes his thoughts would come out clearer than a steady ramble in stereo.

"Thank God," he remarks aloud, making sure she knows how thankful he is that he won't be subjected to Walter's experiments in the kitchen. His father isn't a bad cook, when lucid, but worry over Peter's well-being has him wandering the past thirty-something years, many of those invented fantasies created by heavy drug use. On his own, Peter would have simply foregone eating until his head cooperated long enough for him to grab grab crackers and the jar of peanut butter in the refrigerator.

_Maybe_, he thinks, _having someone to get you food that won't twist your stomach _without _having to wait a day is part of what a relationship's really about._

"Peter?" Walter calls from the kitchen. His feet shuffle across the floor, and he enters the living room wearing a cautious smile that grows when he catches sight of Olivia. "Oh, Olivia! I didn't know you were here! Did you knock? I don't remember getting the door, and Peter shouldn't be getting up – "

"I let myself in, Walter," she answers. Her tone catches Peter's wandering attention, cutting through layers of clouds to his conciseness; she sounds tired, weary, and ready to go to bed herself.

"Yes, yes, of course. Your relationship with Peter requires some bit of mystery, I suppose."

"Walter," Peter groans from the couch. "We talked about this."

"What? I didn't say anything inappropriate. But now that I think about it, your mother and I – "

"No," cuts in Peter, close to putting his hands over his ears. "No child is supposed to hear that stuff."

Walter frowns.

"What are you making in there, Walter?" Olivia asks, her question – mere presence – an antidote to any awkwardness between father and son.

"I am attempting to mix fried meats with applesauce," he says with childish glee.

"He hasn't given up on that, yet," moans Peter from the couch, burrowing further into his blanket cocoon. "I wish I had nose plugs."

"It isn't that bad, son! It actually tastes quite wonderful. Or will, in a few hours. I'm this close, I know it!" He continues speaking, but only to himself, apparently gripped by a flash of inspiration that has him moving faster than normal back into the kitchen.

As soon as he vanishes, Peter drops an arm over his eyes and takes a small breath through his nose, glad there's not as much congestion in his head as a few days earlier. It's moved, according to the doctors, into his chest, hence all this pneumonia drama he's living through.

"C'mon, Peter, it's not that bad," Olivia chides.

"That isn't the problem," mutters Peter. He takes a deep breath and coughs a few times, leaning forward a bit as the fit takes over, grows. Olivia shifts to kneel beside the couch and hands him the glass of water, holding it close for when he has enough sense of mind to grab for it. By the time he's finished, his eyes are watering and his chest burning, those bruised ribs rising from painkiller limbo to say hello in a most-painful way. He takes the cup from Olivia's hand and tries a few sips, still wincing.

"Hey," she breathes. Peter lets his head fall back to the extra pillow his father brought down for him and closes his eyes as Olivia brushes his hair back from his forehead, her small hand cool against a fever that, while under control, still has him shivering when outside his pile of blankets.

They sit like that, Olivia soothing him with such a simple movement, Peter can't believe how powerful a hold it has over him. He feels like he's melting into the couch, his limbs and lungs relaxing as his breathing steadies.

Then she brushes the back of her hand down his cheek and settles it on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"When I was in the ER, after you left, I was pretty out of it," he explains, not moving, hoping this will be easier to say with his eyes closed. "And when I woke up, he was right in my face and I, damnit, Olivia, I _flinched_."

When she doesn't say anything right away, he cracks open his right eye to look at her, check she's still there even though her hand is a steady weight on his shoulder.

"Are you going to say something?" he grumbles, a flash of anger rising inside him.

"Like what?" she counters. "I'm sure you didn't do it on purpose. And our fight earlier couldn't have helped. Have you talked to him about it?"

He just stares at her. Since when have the Bishop men _talked _out a problem?

She gives a wane smile. "Right. Who am I talking to again? You should say something, explain yourself."

"I barely remember it, Olivia," he replies, opening his eyes.

_Except that isn't entirely true_, he reminds himself, blue eyes studying the ceiling of their little house. It's a dirty white, that in-between shade of eggshell, with marks where strokes overlapped. The mechanics aren't clear, but the terror he felt was, remains in the back of his mind where he still wonders what else happened in his childhood that he can't remember. There are holes and blocks and watery dreamscapes where others have birthdays and first bike rides and happy times. Things don't clear up for him until eleven or twelve, and while it never bothered him before, Peter cares enough now to see he doesn't really know himself at all.

He never had to think about that before; how can he be himself with Olivia, let her in, when he has no idea who he is under all the masks and sarcasm and witty remarks?

And then there's this destiny, this picture from the past, a drawing of a him he's never met, and the layers just pile on until Peter's suffocating under the weight of it all.

If only he could go back to not giving a damn.

"Hey," Olivia's voice drifts through. He turns his head, her face clear after all the memories he wandered through. "Talk to me. What's going on up there?"

"I'm just wondering if I ever had a choice," he admits. His heart pounds so hard in his chest, she has to be able to hear it. Being honest with himself is hard enough – opening up to someone else has always petrified him.

"A choice?" she asks.

"With everything that's happened – Walter bringing me over here, my mother," – he hits an emotional note and shakes his head; she is still someone he can't bring himself to talk about. "That drawing, the machine. It's like I'm just playing a part someone else wrote for me. What if I'd gone to school or Walter hadn't gone to St. Claire's. I just wonder, sometimes."

She smiles. "I could say the same thing. It doesn't matter what happened before, Peter, just what's going to happen." Olivia cups his face in her hands and looks into his eyes. "You don't have to do it alone," she says, and kisses him, her arms sliding around to his back, holding him tight.

When her face burrows into his neck, he closes his eyes again and inhales her scent and decides he'll tell her next week, when he's back at work, about his side project.

* * *

><p>Walter abandons his trials in the kitchen when Olivia mentions ordering from their favorite Chinese restaurant, and when she pushes back through the door with the bags of food, finds Walter's put on one of his records and is in an animated conversation with Peter. Both smile at her when she comes in, then go back to whatever they were discussing. She catches a few words as she goes into the kitchen on the hunt for plates and silverware, and even now, after three years of scientific investigations, still hears some of their conversations as a foreign language.<p>

Instead of eating at the kitchen island, they camp on the floor, Olivia and Walter taking seats in front of the couch. Walter opens a white container and gives a hoot, finding egg foo young, but soon frowns and pokes at it with a chopstick.

"Something wrong?" Olivia asks. "That is what you wanted, right?"

"Yes, of course," he grumbles. "But it reminds me that I never got my hands on the original mosquitoes that caused those wonderful cell growths."

Peter smirks on the couch. "And that's how I, long ago, developed the ability to eat during cases. What do you mean, Walter? I thought you got all the stuff from his lab sent over to yours."

'Well I couldn't well study it when you were in the hospital, Peter! My mind was all over the place," he explains. "While his lab was full of the sorts of things required to engineer the mosquitoes, it was utterly devoid of any notes or actual specimens." He pauses with a bite of egg foo young halfway to his mouth, and adds, "Did he say anything?"

Olivia shakes her head as she swallows her own bite of food. "A lot, but nothing helpful. We haven't recovered the duffel bag he was carrying; he says he thought an agent picked it up, but none of ours recall even seeing it."

"Let me guess: it mysteriously disappeared," Peter weighs in.

"It's bothering me, too."

"Underhil claims he was working on a transmittable cure for malaria, which was the reason he traveled to Africa last year as part of Boston College's research, and thought the vector control would keep those he released into the wild from biting anyone."

"And the cold temperatures, I assume," adds in Walter.

"That can't be the whole story," Peter voices from the couch. "This guy went to considerable lengths to continue his research; most scientists stop after their first fatality."

"There was a woman," Olivia discloses. "He wouldn't stop going on about how she looked down on him for studying a disease but doing nothing to cure it."

"And that's your answer. I bet he's been emailing her progress reports just to stick it to her." Olivia turns to look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. He tries a half-shrug. "If she was good looking and rejected him?"

She rolls her eyes and pokes at her dinner before frowning. "The only thing I don't get is how Carlile became connected to him. The receptionist at Synergy didn't have any clue, but said he'd been coming in for the past six or seven months. He's the one who orchestrated the deal with the owner of the diner and helped cover up the first death. I just don't see Underhil and a man like Carlile crossing paths anywhere."

"They could have met somewhere," tries Peter. "Even in the diner. If Carlile was out of work, he'd be looking for a new job."

"And there's a way to do that?" smirks Olivia, raising an eyebrow. "A criminal secret password?"

"If there is, I'll never tell," he retorts with a grin. "But I'll bet if his mom's house had the same GPS error, he knew about that diner."

He's given up on the soup in his lap, now swirling it around with his spoon as if the egg were tea leaves he could read. Maybe everything that's been happening with the alternate universe has been affecting him more than she thought. Olivia's always been the vocal one, letting everyone know exactly how she feels, and aside from doing what he could to win her back, Peter's been mostly silent on the subject, the revelation earlier the most she's heard him say on the subject.

He notices her gaze on him and gives that shy, small smile that doesn't fool her anymore. "Any word on Carlile?"

* * *

><p>Carlile slips the black duffel over his shoulder and looks both ways before jogging across the street. The weather here is hot but not humid, the highway winding through red canyons under a desert sun.<p>

It would have been easy to simply destroy them; he fathoms, but didn't want to risk it. This new conscious he's developed isn't doing him any favors, and he hopes to release it with the tiny black bugs in the bag – to fly away, sizzle, and die, falling, benign, to earth.

He already has another job lined up.

* * *

><p>Later, Olivia will clean up the dishes and leave them in the sink while Walter begins singing along to a record. Peter will fall asleep on the couch, and between her and Walter, manages his way upstairs before he cramps up from the twisted position he's in despite protests that it was good enough for a year. Olivia won't admit she only wanted to feel his warmth during the night, something telling her she should take every moment of it she can get.<p>

He'll snuggle into her and she'll grab the water when he wakes himself up coughing. They'll gaze at each other and kiss and she'll laugh when he suggests going further.

Olivia will fall asleep to the beating of his heart, him to her even breaths, both to the tiny ticking of a doomsday clock over their heads.


End file.
